


The Grand Paragon Hotel

by BlueMonkey



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Hotel AU, M/M, Slow Build, eventual OT3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-05 07:06:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 68,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5365898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueMonkey/pseuds/BlueMonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Grand Paragon is a prestigeous hotel, part of a chain that spans the US and several European countries. Owned and managed by a billionaire family, it is one of the most popular places in town for students to make some extra money.</p><p>Newt is really just trying to make it through all of his Anthropology classes unscathed. And he's managing, working his regular cleaning duty shifts to pay for his flat as he spends the rest of his time being drowned in homework. He's managing. That is, until the son of the big boss himself takes up residence in the hotel, and life gets a lot more complicated overnight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Night Shift

**Author's Note:**

> Distantly inspired by the concept of The Grand Budapest Hotel. As always, I'd love to hear what you think! There is a red line forming in my head, but it's all very vague and very easily influenced by cool suggestions...
> 
> Tags will be updated as the story progresses.

Newt hasn't been on the night shift in three months. The absence of reception desk work goes even further into the past. Not for lack of trying, he has given it his best shot during his first months, but the general and undisputed consensus after those disasters is that the twenty-three year old student has no sensitivity for social interaction. Guests experience his attempts at hospitality as stilted or blunt.

Simply put, Newt is not a people person.

Yet here he is, in a vast lobby that crawls up three floors until it ends in a sea of black mirror and chandelier, magnificent during daytime and transforming into a classy bottomless ceiling in the dimmed lighting settings of a quarter to midnight.

He needs the money. It's that thought that keeps playing on his mind as he stands rigidly behind the counter, awaiting unplanned guests with dead boredom. The lobby stretches out empty before him. Nobody is set to check in late tonight, and the restaurant has closed an hour ago. Those guests who did occupy the lounge for a while with a book or a coffee have all retired. Working at the reception desk means he can not do his homework for next morning's classes. He most certainly is not allowed to browse his phone. He can get a drink from the bar and doodle on pieces of paper sticking out of the agenda, easy to hide in the case of unexpected guests, and he hasn't worked the night shift frequently enough to think of better ways to entertain himself.

He would have probably broken any one of those rules by now, if not for the CCTV indiscriminately registering him from four different angles.

The Grand Paragon Hotel, like all the others across the continent bearing the same name, is an upper class hotel aimed at businessmen, politicians, and anyone else willing to dish out two hundred dollars a night for the cheapest room with a dull view. The higher up one goes, the more expensive the rooms get. People kill for a single night in the penthouse; a week's stay costs as much as Newt's university tuition for a full year. Newt has to admit that it is a very nice suite, even if the price is ridiculous.

Anyone remotely ambitious in town aspires to be able to afford the room. It's like eating a million dollar hamburger from a box studded with diamonds, and then having to return the box; owning the penthouse for a night is more about what other people think than it is about just getting a good night's rest. Still, the room is booked at least two months of the year.

Newt knows all the rooms by heart. He has been in the penthouse a few times, but he also likes those few offering a gorgeous vista during winter when dawn is at nine and his shift hours allow him to witness it. Again, the reception desk is not really his thing. Newt's regular assignment is on cleaning duty, which gives him full access to the rooms of important people. Open suitcases, carelessly offering accessibility to expensive electronics and passports left behind because they aren't necessary for a quick sightseeing tour, paint a vivid picture of the lives of their guests. He has ten minutes to clean the room and then Sherlock Holmes around without touching more than the bedding and the bathroom replacements.

Since he has been the only one available for this night shift and it does pay double, he figured he could give it another try. He regrets that decision now. God, he thinks with his arms draped lazily over the marble counter top slowly warming up under his weight, there is literally nothing to do. Vince, the janitor, will be back from his rounds in half an hour, and Newt is counting the minutes for some human interaction.

The escalator stops with a ding. He promptly straightens up. Winston, the bell boy, glances at him as he passes the lobby in a straight line to the front door. Unlike half of the other people here, Winston is not a student. He is the oldest son of Ruskin and Sons, a butchery around the corner. The other three sons all work at the butchery, but Winston needs money to pay the rent of the apartment downtown that he shares with three friends, and if his dad was to pay one son a decent wage, he would have to start paying them all. Hence, bell boy.

Newt is almost desperate enough to call after Winston—who has a sort of humour that isn't funny unless one is into uncivilised jokes—when the next escalator door opens. Two men he hasn't seen before, wearing black tie and too bulky to be classy, look at him in unison before following Winston to the front entrance.

Curiosity perked, the chat with Vince is pushed to the back of Newt's mind. He watches as glass doors open from the outside, offering entrance to a flurry of cold air and late autumn leaves to dance across the black marble and gold inlaid floor. With it are the two men and a rumour of people outside. They shelter a third figure, usher him in while shielding him from outside. Together they become a mass of black, occasionally but shortly lit up by a flash that comes from outside.

A second later, two trolleys filled with suitcases follow for the single person. The door closes, and silence returns to the domain.

As soon as the doors of the elevator start carrying their guest up to the respective floor, Newt is back in action. "Winston!" He throws him an expression that says, 'what the fuck?'.

"VIP," Winston replies as if that is supposed to explain to Newt what is going on.

"Yeah? What about check-in? VIP or not—"

Winston hangs his shoulders, his face a deadpan that cuts Newt's words off. Winston also isn't a people person. "VIP, Newt. Penthouse kind of VIP." He pushes the trolleys into the service elevator. "Does-not-pay-for-the-penthouse kind of VIP," he adds with an exasperated sigh when Newt still doesn't catch on. "Whatever, dude. The big boss knows about him."

Like that, he's gone, dousing the lobby back into its dull after hours stillness. Newt's brows crease. The flashing diminishes in the corner of his eyes. A few minutes later, it is as if it has never happened. The night has suddenly shifted from bland to intriguing, overriding his short-lasted annoyance that someone could have been nice and stuck a note into the agenda. He needs to know more.

Someone who does not have to pay for the penthouse—and without entourage, his mind supplies. Everyone pays to brag about the penthouse, that's the purpose of having the top floor of the city's most expensive hotel. Newt quickly leafs through the agenda one more time. Nothing. He eyes his phone, skilfully hidden under the counter and just out of reach for the surveillance camera at his back, and is—

A hand slams onto the desk. "Dude."

In front of him stands an imposing guy, panting in exertion. He also has ten nerd hobbies, which is why Newt is not impressed by the unexpected appeal. He knows this man well enough after having sharing classes him for over seven years now. Alby is a friend. 

The other man leans his weight against the desk. He is grinning. "Look at you here, actually working. I feel so proud right now. I thought you said your plans were making twice as much money doing nothing."

Newt shrugs that off. "Beats being here doing nothing without getting paid for it." Because Alby is not on shift, and it's nearing midnight. On a Tuesday. Newt has a better reason.

Alby's excuse is that he's bored. Newt hasn't got anything to do, nor Alby, and there is nothing in the rules against talking with fellow members of the staff. "No, really," Alby shakes his head, "I was in the neighbourhood when that cluster of flash photography hit the doors." He gestures over his shoulder. Newt notices the slacks and running shirt. "So, what have we got? Mayor? Celebrity?"

"Someone who got the penthouse for free? I don't know."

Alby whistles. "And you're stuck down here. Hey, you want me to have a look?"

Newt is about to do stop Alby from edging towards the elevators like he is now, if only because someone is going to look at Newt in the morning for disturbances during his watch. He won't be able to pin this on the security guards. He opens his mouth. Newt has a spotless record, and the boss likes him. There are a number of ways he can pass this off with an excuse. Of course, he could wait for Winston, but getting Winston to tell him more than what he has told him before is like trying to squeeze water out of a grain of sand.

"Hell yes."

Alby chuckles. He spins around with a bounce. The indicator above the elevator—an old-fashioned arrow to match the rest of the art deco interior—soon shifts with every floor, keeping Newt in suspense.

When it stops fully to the right, his mouth tugs a line from ear to ear. Mission fucking accomplished. That the indicator starts dropping back to the left almost at once may or may not mean that he has cheered too fast. Whatever. As much as he enjoys putting together the pieces on an otherwise uneventful shift, Newt needs results now. "So?" His voice, louder than usual, bounces off the stone to cross the lobby to get lost in the chandeliers.

Alby, ever helpful, walks painfully slowly up to the desk that Newt is not allowed to leave. He is taking his time, knowing that Newt wants to hiss things at him that wouldn't be professional. Upon reaching him, he leans forward against the counter. His eyes are twinkling. This is going to be good. "The guy has bodyguards, Newt."

"So a celebrity?" Newt isn't usually excited about celebrities, unless maybe when it is about the contents of their rooms. No, it is the air of mystery that does it. He can't stand it, and yet he is eating it up. Even Alby's intentional pause, much as he pretends with a push against his friend's shoulder not to, has him on his toes.

When Alby finally tells him that their guest is the heir of the chain—the kid of the big boss himself, all the way from the Big Apple—Newt can not help it; he is disappointed. 

"Sort of a celebrity," Alby tries.

Newt shuts the agenda with a snap. "Only because him being here is going to have everyone on tiptoe." That's not entirely fair, because he knows nothing about the man. And their guest could be there for only a few days. It's just that the title comes with expectations. They have had his father over for quality assessment, a few months before Newt started working at the Grand Paragon, and from what he has heard, it has been akin to extended purgatory.

Either way, having the son of the big boss stay is something he is ambivalent about. So it is either back to being bored, or prodding Alby for company.

Thankfully, his friend does not disappoint.

 

* * *

 

During the days that follow, Newt is covered in lectures and assignments. He doesn't have another shift until Saturday—thankfully being restored to regular cleaning duty—but there is no rest to be had, no idle time in which he can enjoy preparing a decent meal instead of shoving a clump of microwave-ready noodles down his throat and be done with it. He finishes the accompanying salty soup only because it makes his diet more nutritious.

A new boy named Thomas has joined his International Business classes midway, cocky like he owns the place. It doesn't take a genius to put two and two together. Thomas, who is introduced to the first class he and Newt share with a bodyguard right outside the classroom window, wouldn't enroll in a course if he is only there for a few days. Though Newt figures Thomas does a lot of things just for the hell of it.

Seated in the back of the class, his eyes flit from the blackboard and the teacher to the new student. Thomas has asked Mr. Iwada about the material covered in previous three classes; Mr. Iwada is too nice and has so far tried to cram a summary into fifteen minutes out of everyone's time. Some classmates eventually take out their phones or turn around in their seats, and it takes a little longer before he understands that his class suffers because the new student demands attention.

Thomas is assigned to the kid next to him for more information, but Mr. Iwada can't make up for lost time. Their class is cut short before he has had the time to cover all of the new material.

Newt is not a fan.

"He's not that bad," Alby shrugs during coffee and homework.

Newt taps his pen on the paper. His opinion won't make him sound very nice when pronounced aloud. Instead he finishes a part of the assignment, which has to be done in half an hour before his next class, and he isn't close to wrapping up even a third of it. Newt is a good student, who just happens to have overestimated the amount of classes he can physically handle in a semester. The new kid just is not a priority at this moment.

"I'm telling you," Alby rambles on with his coffee clutched in his hands and no homework on the table in front of him, adamant to strike up idle conversation, "he took the time to chat with some of us at work yesterday. Turns out, he is taking most of your classes."

Newt's mouth twitches.

"Yeah, I know. Except of course the couple of extra ones." Alby gestures at Newt's paperwork. "I gotta admit, he's got more sanity than you."

"They're interesting classes."

"You need to think about other things than interesting classes, Newt. Like the fact that you need to pass most of them."

Newt can handle it. What does surprise him is that the heir to the Grand Paragon Hotel is enrolling in Anthropology instead of something like a business degree or anything else that makes more sense. It's obvious where he is going to end up when he gets out of university. 

Closing his book and rounding up the stray papers, he is about to give up on his assignment when the bell above the door chimes and the devil himself bustles into the campus coffee shop.

Thomas, Newt is loathe to admit, does not look like he has more money than he can handle. A simple hooded sweater, sneakers and jeans make him look approachable; as does the laughter that peels from him at surprisingly respectable levels. He turns down the volume just in case, before searching for a spot for him and his companion further down the cafeteria, where he faces Newt's back and ought to pass from his attention swiftly.

A look at Alby reflects that such is not the case. The problem is that Alby knows him too well. By now he will have connected the dots about when Newt is spacing out, mentally inaccessible, and the presence of the very student left of Thomas. Alby still reads Newt like an open book, and Newt has long stopped attempting to hide the pages, knowing that its secrets are accepted and safe with his friend. So it passes unspoken that Newt is thinking of the way the left boy's eyes crinkle when he smiles—because oh, Newt knows him well. The new kid has struck up a friendship with Minho Park, highest ranking both on the track and on the list of people that everyone wants to be friends with, on only his second day.

Newt shares one class with Minho; he runs into the other boy more often than that, and they once bumped into each other during Christmas quite by chance, but Newt is certain Minho has no idea who he is.

Everyone likes Minho, and elites attract. Which is why some of the more shameless people around Newt and Alby are sneaking photos with their phones when they think nobody can see it. Which is why Newt wishes he was in Alby's spot, considering to degrade himself to the same level. 

He doesn't think he would, but that is not the point. He would have had the choice. And the view.

Voices carry in the coffee shop. By the time they reach Newt, Thomas and Minho sound too distorted by cutlery against ceramics and other people talking to make sense of what they're saying. He picks up that it appears to be an animated conversation. When it stops, it must be because they have taken the time to look at the card or check their phones. Not because Alby is waving at them.

Newt crashes back into reality.

"What are you—"

Alby grins, points at Newt—Newt shows his appreciation with a kick in the shins—before he gestures at Thomas and Minho over his head.

"Told him about you at work," Alby explains. "He said he needed to catch up, and you're practically doing all his classes. I figured—"

"You're such a fucking terrible friend." 

Newt swirls his spoon around the inside of his cup. The silver stirs the shallow bottom left of his milk-and-coffee in a soothing motion, but Newt's eyes do not leave Alby's, his other hand flat on the table and already shifting his weight to push himself up. "I'm leaving. "

"Newt?"

Newt strings a stanza of curses together in his head, his eyes still on Alby, before diplomacy wins out. He smooths over the creases in his face, then turns to the source of the voice. Newt's eyes drop to his shoulder, where Thomas's hand is resting. "Oh. Hi." He forces it out with an exerted smile. "Thomas, right?"

Newt is going to kill Alby.

Thomas has kind eyes; Newt wants to punch them, too. He senses Alby gesturing something at Thomas behind his back, and Thomas at least removes the hand out of his personal space. Better. "Hi! It's really nice to meet you. You work at the hotel too, right? Your friend told me you were, and that we share a couple of classes. Thought I'd come and say hi."

"Yeah, sure." A blank stretches out where words should be. Newt has nothing to say. He helplessly fishes for something. "Er. Are you liking it so far?"

He is ready to shoot himself; Thomas waves for Minho and then draws a chair from another table, leaning forward. Newt had an opportunity to let the talk bleed to death before anyone could turn it into something real, and now his punishment is having to sit and listen as Thomas politely waltzes over any protests before Newt can make them with a cheerful attitude, starting about the trip from New York to the car that got him into the hotel fourteen hours later. He tells about how wonderful the view is from up high, and how charming he finds the staff so far. He can't wait to meet everyone else. University is going to take some time catching up on, he admits, and it's all overwhelming to have to pick up hallway. 

Thomas expertly leads them to where he wants them to be; maybe Newt could drop by at work some time and help him out. He stresses that he is so lucky someone else from the hotel takes the same classes.

Thomas expects him to say yes. His error is in giving Newt time to speak. "Yeah, er, I'm running late."

"Oh. Sure." Still brimming with positivity, Thomas taps at his watch. It's chrome and expensive and possibly a limited edition. "Shit, you're right. Linguistics lecture, you too? There any chance you could point me the way? I'm still learning my way around."

Minho stops playing with his phone. Whereas Alby has abundantly signalled involvement in the one-sided conversation that is rather much like an excited monologue on Thomas's side, Newt expected Minho not to have heard a word, his expressions coaxed only by what is on the screen. "Dude, it's easy. Building across the lawn. You take the main door and you just keep walking. Follow signs for the auditorium when you're inside."

"Really? Cool. Thanks, man."

"No problem."

The honesty in the exchange takes Newt by surprise. He steels himself, sensing a trap, and moves his stuff to his bag. It's five more minutes before the lecture; Newt tells himself that it's because he wants a nice spot. That will at least be his excuse if people ask. He gets up and forces a smile. If he doesn't get away soon, he is going to make an ass out of himself.

"Pleasure to meet you," he tells Thomas. Minho.

No one can say he hasn't tried.

Newt pushes forward. He drops his cup off at the counter and fumbles for his ear buds, leaving Alby to make new friends in his free hour. When his hand is on the door handle, he looks around. The coffee shop is a popular place to study, and it is one of Newt's favourite spots on campus. But Thomas is already gathering his stuff and getting ready to catch up with him. Newt pushes past the door quickly.

"Boy," the new boy chuckles when he crashes down in the seat next to Newt five minutes later, "you're fast."

"You're just slow."

The beat of silence is swallowed up by other students pouring in. Thomas's hands pause in his bag. Then life resumes, and he shrugs it off. "Hey, could you tell me what book—"

Newt raises his own. "Page 320. Influences of Sanskrit."

"Really? Cool. What did we have last week?"

"Influences of Sanskrit."

"Oh."

Newt puts the book back down. The curt responses are gratifying. "And yes, you're expected to know the whole other 319 pages before next week's test."

"Well, shuck."

"Which is not a word." Newt is smiling now.

"…A little help?"

He can't help it. Thomas may have been fed with a golden spoon and yes, he may have access to everything he wants; he might make things very difficult for Newt at work if Newt manages to offend him—which Newt is notoriously good at. But Thomas is also like an excited puppy, one who for some reason follows him around and ignores Newt's social rank, and doesn't understand when he's not wanted, to the point where his efforts become almost charming.

Thomas will learn fast enough. Until that time, Newt will go to lengths to shut him up. 

"After work tomorrow, Greenie?"

No price is greater than Thomas opening and closing his mouth the way he does at that name.


	2. Human Evolution

Newt knows he has been horribly naive, the moment he steps inside the penthouse as something other than a cleaner and Thomas looks up from the TV with an Xbox controller in his hands, slacks and a top, to smile when he sees him. He pauses the game. Gone is the lost attitude. Thomas is warming up to the new temperatures of the city fast, just like the room has changed under his influence.

The penthouse is no longer that tastefully classy. In fact, aside from the view, the high ceilings and the sheer size, very little remains of the once carefully decorated top floor. The original red velvet furniture has been moved to a storage, just like the carpets and the gold-rimmed black tables. The bed in the other room is now covered in a desaturated blue and lilac print—Newt wouldn't have paid attention if Thomas had cared to close the door. A few posters line the bedroom wall, and light filters orange into the room. Without having to take a look, Newt knows that Thomas intends to stay, and that he knows exactly how he wants it to be while he does. The penthouse is certainly no longer a better version of the rest of the hotel.

"You like it then?" Thomas chuckles.

"It's very different."

"Well, yeah. I mean, I am living here now."

Newt wonders for the first time why Thomas made the move. There are better opportunities for him in New York than there are in Denver, Colorado. He is living in a hotel; it is his dad's hotel and most likely free for him, but it is still a hotel. Privacy is something Thomas can arrange only up to an extent. Staff will know when he leaves and when he returns to his place. If he ever orders in, it will have to go through the front desk.

Thomas laughs. "It's the ceiling, isn't it? I haven't found a way to get rid of the angels without painting over them, and that wouldn't be very nice to the original painter, now would you think? Well, don't just stand there. You want a drink?"

Newt does just stand there, trying to keep his mouth from dropping open and making him look like an idiot. Little is left of the helplessness Thomas displayed in university. "Water is fine," he mumbles.

"Water? Sure! I've got soda if you like. Probably shouldn't bring out the alcohol until later," he says brightly. 

Newt knows he has been played. "I'm not here for homework at all, am I?"

"We can talk about it if you want," the other boy calls from the bar. "I read the first couple of chapters last night. To be honest, no questions so far. I'll probably finish what I need to know for the test before Monday. But hey, we can talk about other classes."

"Tell me again why you didn't just ask for a private tutor?"

Thomas returns with a glass of mineral water, hands it over, and falls back on the couch. "I probably should, yeah. But that's no fun."

A headache is starting to form, though Newt sits down opposite Thomas and sips from his glass, still going over the interior changes. His spine is rigid. As he decides that the changes to the penthouse definitely make it more homey, he also knows his time will be better spent on the rest of his classes than on socialising with Thomas with his game on pause.

"You play?" Thomas notices his attention.

Newt snorts. "Don't have a television."

"You don't—" Thomas has visible trouble wrapping his head around that statement. He hands Newt the controller. "You want to try?"

Newt waves his hand. He feels his weight sink into the couch. If he was alone, he would have taken off his shoes and pulled his feet up, a stark contrast with his inability to move under the scrutiny of his current company. Thomas must have noticed, because he puts the controller away and curls his legs under him, leaning forward on the cushion. In his hands lingers a can of Coke. "Don't take this the wrong way, okay?" he starts. "But you look uncomfortable. I don't know, like wondering why you're here."

Newt's toes crunch under him. "Er. School I suppose, yes."

"Yeah! Look, sorry. Alby mentioned you are taking a couple of extra classes, and I don't want to keep you from them unnecessarily. But I really do need to catch up, and you're taking my classes. Plus, you seem like a nice guy."

"Buttering me up isn't helping."

Thomas laughs, relaxing in his spot. "Whatever. Can you at least help me with Human Evolution? I expected that one to be easy."

On the couch, Newt breathes out. He has made the same mistake downplaying the class after a migraine prevented him from being present for the first class. The second class proved his expectations dead wrong. Human Evolution is a bitch, probably because everyone knows the basics and therefore it delves deep into the matter. "Still need to do my homework for that," he shrugs. "I could do it here?"

They spend some time going over the chapters at the dinner table that doesn't look like it is put to much use. From here, Newt has a view of the garbage bin and the empty pizza boxes piled up next to it. The hum of the dishwasher is quietly running in the background, so it appears that the pizzas are at least moved to a plate.

Thomas is a smart one. He follows Newt's breakdown and isn't afraid to ask when he doesn't grasp a concept, but there's very little he has to ask. 

When they finish up the assignment, they haven't taken longer than Newt normally would, and that is with explanations included. "I should do more homework together," it dawns on him. It would solve his chronic lack of time. Maybe next semester he will listen to Alby and not take up as much.

The thing is, Newt knows himself. If there are interesting classes on next semester's list that are not on his core one, then he will probably take them anyway. Still. He hasn't finished his homework for the previous weeks of Human Evolution with this much ease, and he is sure he understands the matter regardless. So with a bit of shrewdness, he suggests he wouldn't mind going over Archaeology of Death either, if Thomas is up for it.

It's eleven before the elevator takes him back to the lobby. The clock takes him by surprise. Newt's shift ended at six, which means he has spent three hours longer than planned at Thomas's place. Or the penthouse—whatever.

With some ninety percent of his homework done, too.

His phone buzzes in his pocket as he disentangles his headphones in the cold outside. It's from an unknown number.

_Thanks for today._

A puff of cold air escapes his mouth when he laughs, pulling his scarf higher up for warmth.

_This number is confidential. Who did you bribe?_

_Is not if it's from a friend at uni. But hey, thanks for letting me know it's actually yours. Catch you on Monday?_

Newt smiles and pushes music into his ears. Maybe Thomas isn't too bad.

_Sure. Now stop pestering your employees._

_Shut up, shank._

_Language, jerk._

And that's enough. Thomas may be nice, but he is starting to loosen Newt up, and that's a little too much power Newt is willing to give to anyone he knows as little as he knows Thomas. He saves the number before clearing his mind with the loudest track list he can find to accompany him home.

For the first time in months, he is going to have a Sunday without having to bother with homework and without having to get up for shifts.

 

* * *

 

Of course, thinking that either work or classes are going to leave him alone on his rare day off is a deception. His phone makes a hideous noise as it rattles three consecutive messages next to his bed while the world is still dark outside—which is to say, it's too bloody early. He thinks he can still fall back asleep when two more kill that dream fast.

"Alby, what the fuck?"

"You weren't up."

Newt wants to smother his phone in hopes that Alby somehow gets the hint. He isn't calling because he is up, he's calling because his eyes are too blurry for him to be able to type. To make things worse, his bad leg begins to throb. So yes, Newt feels utterly like an old person. Thank goodness for speaker mode. "Does it sound like I'm up? What's the big emergency?"

"I sent you some pictures."

"And?"

In the background, he thinks he hears Frypan, a short restaurant intern, call his name.

"You will want to see them."

The sheets in which Newt stifles a groan don't do their job, since Alby laughs. "Look, I can't really talk right now. But check them. Sorry, man."

Because Alby breaks the connection, Newt has to assume Alby's apologies are about waking him up. To be safe, he rubs his eyes and rolls onto his stomach for the pictures.

At first, he has no idea what he's watching. Several lines join in a corner. They're gold and definitely part of the hotel, but other than that…

…wait. There is a mirror, and left of that the corner of an announcement flyer. The same one that has been reminding people of the limited time special Christmas menu, the flyer in the elevator. Surrounding it are bells, Christmas balls and other gaudy holiday decorations. Is that mistletoe? In the Grand Paragon, which is known for class and looking almost the same year round? Which states that no Christmas songs are allowed in the lobby except on Christmas itself, and that wreaths and other related items are strictly prohibited?

Except those are definitely Christmas decorations. 

Newt slides quickly to the next one. This time there is no mistake about it; those are definitely Christmas lights at the reception desk. _There's even a song!_ , says Alby's caption.

By now Newt is sitting up. He's massively confused; when he left the Grand Paragon, these things were definitely not there. There is no doubt that it is against regulations, so who did it, and when?

The third picture is a blurry one of surprised guests.

The fourth sheds a light.

It's almost like it couldn't have been anyone else. Thomas is still recognisable dressed in all-black. He is shielding his face from the camera with a hand that doesn't cover up the Christmas hat. There might or might not be a more anonymous accomplice standing behind him. The picture isn't clear enough for that.

"Oh my God." Newt falls back in bed.

He doesn't know it then, but the decorations are the beginning of a number of changes inside the hotel. For now, Newt thinks it's a juvenile prank, one that is going to be erased before the end of the day or as soon as one of the managers finds out, although he can't hide the smile.

So, Thomas doesn't care a lot about the rules.

 

* * *

 

"Already?"

"Already," says Thomas. "Three hours, before he took them down. Janson nearly freaked out in public. You should have seen him. I think he may have started a file on me. He was taking all these pictures, but I don't think he called Mum or Dad about it."

"I'd love to see those pictures," laughs Minho. "You're crazy."

Newt walks alongside them with his hand on his bag and his mood set to awkward. Which it has been on since Minho joined up with them.

Newt planned only to walk Thomas to class and make sure he didn't get lost, but now they're looking like a clique with Newt as the quiet third wheel, and he is struggling for an excuse to bail.

"Want to hang them back up tonight?" Minho prompts.

Thomas shrugs. "Nah, it has to be something else. Something nobody expects."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. I'll get back to you on that."

Newt feels like an accomplice, listening to them scheme. He supposes it's all fun and games; it is just that the topic makes him mildly uncomfortable.

"What do you think?" Thomas suddenly involves him into their talk.

"That you two are mental." The words escape before Newt understands that that's not what Thomas asked. But it feels good to say it out loud. "You don't mess with Janson."

Both Thomas and Minho say nothing to that, and Newt feels his face heat up. He shouldn't have said that. Now he feels like he spoiled their banter with his social awkwardness that tends to fall back to biting retorts when he doesn't know what else to say. This is exactly why the Grand Paragon reception desk and working with customers are not for him.

"Wait, you mean Rat Man?" Minho suddenly asks him.

It's the first time Minho has said something to Newt, and it's about something so ridiculous that Newt forgets about worrying. He breaks into a laugh. "Rat Man?!" Admittedly, Janson does look like one. His job is sniffing around other people's business, too, so the comparison is spot on. "That sounds like Janson all right. How do you even know him?"

"Janson? How do I not? Whose fault do you think it is I no longer work there?"

Newt needs time to process that. Minho worked at the Grand Paragon? When? Newt can't remember ever seeing him there, so it must have been at least a few years back. He is in his second year now; he started working at the hotel within two months.

Thomas is faster replying. There's mischief in him. "I think you should really come hang out at mine more often."

"Probably should, slinthead."

Under his breath, Newt moans, "Not you too."

"Hey, are you still looking for a job?" Thomas asks. "I know what would really rile him up."

Minho laughs and shakes his head. "No way. I'd have to put up with that ugly slinthead again. He'd be breathing down my neck until I quit."

"I suppose." Thomas doesn't sound like that would stop him. He stops in front of the tracks. "This is where you get off, right?"

"If only," Minho laughs again. Newt is smiling himself from the amount of times Minho does that while in his company. Not having been paying attention to their surroundings until it is time to continue in the originally planned company of two, Newt nearly chokes when Thomas's words sink in though.

"I'll come over," Minho promises Thomas. He walks off but pauses halfway, before turning to Newt. "Hey. When do you work?"

Newt's throat jams shut. Minho is definitely addressing him. What does he say? He shouldn't make an ass out of himself, not now. It shouldn't be so hard, but his mind is already thinking up ways to impress Minho. "Three to eight?" he forces out, happy that that's all he says, instead of finishing with some lame follow-up comment. It's too early for these levels of stress.

Minho salutes them. "Cool. I'll be there at eight."

Newt's mouth is dry. Thomas pats him on the back kindly to kick-start him, and Newt gasps. But Minho is already gone, so he must have zoned out for a while there. "Er," he starts. "Help me out here. Does that mean I'm invited, or, you know, explicitly not?"

A laugh is his response. "Come on, we've got classes to attend."

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, he is explicitly invited. Minho is lounging in a chair in the lobby when Newt finishes changing in the staff room. He stops at the edge of the lobby when he catches sight of the runner. 

Minho is unaware of the audience, but he is aiming for one beyond a doubt. His body relaxes into the chair in a way that is slightly inappropriate for the sterile waiting room. Guests are watching him. Aware and uninterested, he instead chats with one of the waitresses, Brenda. She is also on the track team; she is known for her fearlessness, which has made her popular both in university and among most of the male students working at the hotel alike.

Newt puts on his music, walks to the door and pretends not to have seen him. The sooner, he thinks, this embarrassment can end; this pretense that people like him enough to involve him.

"Yo, shank," Minho calls behind him. Newt hesitates, but he keeps walking. He is almost at the door when the other bars his path with a wholly oblivious laugh. "Seriously."

Newt grows beet red when Minho reaches for his earphones and takes them out, disregarding the concept of personal space. "Hey," he says again, amused. "Didn't I tell you I'd drop by?"

Brenda is looking at them oddly. When Minho catches sight of it, he gives back the earphones and quickly puts his hands in his pockets. His smile is stilted after that; as are his words. "So are you coming?"

Plenty of excuses can be made. Newt wants to give in, but being around Minho has him on his toes, so he opts for the homework one. "Sorry," he says. "I got more assignments than expected in class today. Maybe next time."

Minho snorts. Newt thinks he sees his eyes flit to Brenda for a second. "Sure. Next time." He says it like he has no clue how Newt got that idea into his head, that it's ridiculous for him to even suggest it.

The bag slung over Newt's shoulder slips when Minho nudges his shoulder with a bit more force than is considered friendly. Newt doesn't understand. Minho has been nice today—unexpectedly so—but he is back to being far away from him once again. What's the point in bothering with Newt if a glance from Brenda has them back on opposite sides of the fence?

Thomas. It has to be Thomas. 

For some reason, Thomas insists on spending time with Newt. Newt doesn't know what he has done to merit that attention from someone who's got the world at his feet, but that's how it is, and it is something that he thinks he likes.

Thomas also spends time with Minho. The thing is that it has thrown Minho and Newt into this awkward situation where neither of them has asked to be around the other. It is making Newt uncomfortable, and apparently Minho unbearable.

"You're being a twat," Newt announces in a fleeting burst of courage. "Bye, Minho."

He pushes past the front entrance into the cold. His hands are jammed into his pockets for warmth, his steps brisk. Newt is fuming. He angrily wrestles with his earphones, trying to get them properly untangled. When the knots don't come undone fast enough, he utters a frustrated, "Ugh!"

"Hey."

Knots and all are hurriedly shoved inside his pocket. "What do you want?" he hisses, and oh, the frustration drips from those words.

Minho looks at him from the distance of three strides. Outside, there is no Brenda, which accounts for less agitation on Minho's side. The problem is that Brenda or no, Newt continues to glare.

"Uh, you left these."

In Minho's hands are Newt's gloves. Newt was holding onto them in the lobby; he can't remember having left them there, but either Minho is a secret master thief or Newt was distracted, because they are definitely his. 

Newt steps closer and snags them back.

"Look, sorry about before." The runner is looking uncomfortable. "I uh—"

Newt groans. "I get it, okay? You're friends with Thomas, and apparently he insists on talking to me too. Let's stop pretending that that automatically means you have to talk to me as well. No hard feelings."

"That's not—"

"Yes, it is. Thanks for the gloves. Now go have fun with Tommy, and make sure someone takes pictures of your crimes against Janson." Newt offers a tentative smile. He's not pissed off, just a bit disappointed. It would have been nice to start hanging out with Minho. His feet shuffle back to a safe distance, where he lowers his gaze and turns.

It's when he slips into his gloves around the corner that it dawns on him that of all the things, he has just called his friend _Tommy_.

And he did it in front of Minho.

Newt freezes.

He needs to get home before someone catches him doing anything even more embarrassing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So far for getting to know the people; I've got the start of a plot lined up for the next chapter :)


	3. Modern Medicine

"So hey," Chuck loudly emerges from room 304 to put the pile of bedding in his arms on the cart, "you're saying he's actually smart?"

Behind the cart outside room 306, opposite the hallway, sounds a laugh. "Trust me, surprised me too."

Aside from them, the hallway of the third floor is blissfully empty. A hotel like the Grand Paragon can afford having all rooms soundproof, which is why their loud banter, enabled primarily by Chuck being prone to outbursts and giggle fits, does not disturb the guests.

Newt likes being on the same shift as Chuck. He's a freshman who got a job by adding a few years to his age. When people discovered his real age—thirteen at the time; he is fifteen now—Chuck kept his job by grace of being very, very good at what he does. When people emerge from their hotel room, he is polite at the least, and charming if he can help it. The boyish manners dissolve immediately in front of hotel guests. Guests mention the wonderful cleaning service in reviews, and Janson has been told several times not to let him go if he can help it.

Chuck is a delight to the guests, but he has a boyish mischief among friends. He leans on his cart, waiting for Newt to finish up his room. "What's he like? Everyone talks about him. Some people even say you've been in the penthouse." Chuck lets his sentence trail off. His eyebrows are raised, his eyes alive. "Come on, be honest. Do you like the guy?"

Newt raises his head above the cart. "What?"

"Well, is he nice?"

Newt looks at the tray of half empty soap bottles. "Yeah. Yeah, I suppose he is."

"Oh, don't be uptight about it," chortles Chuck. "I'm not asking you if you're gay for him. Which would be totally cool if you were, but please, spare me the details. He's not stuck up, is he? He's the big boss's son, after all. He must have a lot of money. Hey, do you think he's ever had a job? Probably not, right?"

Newt is glad that Chuck keeps rambling, so he doesn't notice that the beginning of a fever is making its way up Newt's spine. He takes two bottles of shower gel and shakes them for Chuck to see. "Let me finish this room first, or I'm never getting it done."

As he gathers half used bottles in the bathroom, he looks at himself in the mirror. Room 306 is a standard double bedroom room, which means that the layout is simple, and the bathroom impeccable if not small. With the new bottles to replace the used ones, the room looks perfect again. Two teethbrushes in each their own glass stand by the sink, and some toiletry litters one side. Newt breathes in.

A raw throat has been bothering him the last two mornings, but the fever is social in nature. He waits until he feels better. In the hallway, Chuck is whistling a song.

"Hey," he pipes up as Newt closes the door. Their previous subject is alreay forgotten. "I was wondering. You remember Ben, right?"

"From Recreation? Sure."

"Did you hear?"

"Er?"

Chuck pushes the trolley to 305. "Got fired, he did."

"Ben?" Ben, who has the lady guests wrapped around his finger? Who gets excessive tips for ridiculously simple things like arranging someone a taxi. Newt can't say he knows him well, apart from the stories that make the rounds about him. Apparently Ben used to work at the hotel gym, before moving to the excursion desk in the lobby after a few incidents with upset husbands. "Why? I thought he just had his contract renewed?"

"That's the thing," says Chuck while getting ready to fix up the next room. He knocks on the door. "Housekeeping!" There is no response, so he pushes his keycard into the slot, then continues, "Nobody knows. It's the same as with Nick."

"Huh." Newt stops to consider that. "Do you think we…?"

Chuck laughs. "Nope, don't worry about us. They can't miss us. We're too good." He picks up a pile of fresh bedding, grins at Newt, and hobbles off. "Just think it's weird," he calls from the room. Newt is going through the motions in his own appointed room. For a while, all is pleasantly quiet. It's an early morning. Newt doesn't have classes until later, and for once his homework is done.

A whirlwind of teen boy suddenly pounces on his unmade bed. Newt has only just removed the sheets, so he raises a brow. 

"So," Chuck drawls, "Thomas is friends with Minho?"

Newt blinks.

Chuck shrugs. "Brenda saw you talking. Didn't know you know Minho. He's cool. I think he was up at Thomas's place yesterday. Funny, how it's no longer 'The Penthouse', don't you think? It doesn't look like a penthouse anymore, I suppose. Anyway, word travels. I'm sure Minho being here regularly will really get under Janson's skin. Wouldn't want to get on his bad side, now that he's got a license to fire people and all. Janson has been bad enough since Thomas got here."

Disregarding work, Newt pushes a curtain aside and sits on the windowsill. The available chairs are covered with closed suitcases and an arrangement of clothes. Female, both. Elderly people, possibly. A tourist guide has been lost on the chair near the television. Either way, Newt is sure he doesn't do any harm sitting on the window sill. "You think he got worse since Thomas?"

"After that Christmas prank? Are you kidding me?"

"Oh, get off the bed," Newt laughs, watching his friend lie limbless on it as he taps his chin in thought. If one of the managers—or worse—finds them here, there will be explaining to do. He moves to the left of the windowsill and pats the cool marble next to him. The guests of the room have left the window ajar; a breeze crosses his hand. "I don't know Minho, okay? He's friends with Thomas and he's on the track team, that's all."

"And you're friends with Thomas."

"Apparently. Or just very convenient for homework."

Chuck doesn't accept that. He offers Newt a hand so they can get back to work, taking one pile of bedsheets for himself to get started.

"Do you wonder why he came here?" Newt asks into the silence of the room. Because he does, he does wonder. Newt still catches photographers outside from time to time on his way to work. It has gotten less since the weekend. Denver is not like New York though, and he can't help but think that it must have been worse there.

Something is lodged in his throat. He coughs, twice.

Chuck's work is fast. "Probably some scandal at a party, or maybe his dad wants him to study in a place where he might actually get some studying done. I don't know. Why are you asking me?"

Because it isn't something Newt wants to ask Thomas in person. "Probably has his own fan page on Facebook," Newt snorts instead.

"Look it up," Chuck challenges.

Newt sniffs. "If I'm ever in the mood to make things _awkward_."

"Dude. You caught a cold!"

"I did not." Newt reminds himself to go to bed early and extra warm that night. Maybe get some aspirin. Nip it in the bud.

"Did too," laughs Chuck. "I thought you sounded funny. You make sure Janson doesn't find out. Now is not a good time, my friend."

"Now is not a good time for what?"

Both of them freeze at the foot end of their beds. The voice is cheerful and it lacks snide, so it can't be Janson's. Regardless, they don't turn their heads until the source of the voice laughs, and Newt relaxes. "Thomas. Don't fucking scare us like that again."

Thomas plops onto Newt's bed. "I'm bored. Finished my homework and don't have classes until two. And before you ask, I've had it with shucking Sanskrit. What are you up to?"

The hotel counts twenty-one floors and each floor carries at least fifteen rooms, so Newt knows that Thomas has passed the rosters and figured out which wing he has been assigned to for today. Nobody says Thomas doesn't know exactly what Newt is up to, and how much longer it is until the end of his shift.

Chuck's head ducks. He quickly mutters an apology before returning to his duties.

Newt's jaw drops. "You frightened him."

"Well, I'm the son of the big boss," says Thomas. He has the decency not to look too smug about that, as if he had planned for it to be a joke and realising halfway through that for a joke, it is a rather inappropriate one. "You want me to go after him?"

Since the bed is off bounds now that it has Thomas on it, Newt moves back to the windowsill. "I'll tell you what. It's his birthday tomorrow, and he's going to be on a shift. He's not happy about that. If you can get a Happy Birthday song out over the intercom, you're forgiven."

Thomas falls back to watch Newt upside down. "Be still, my heart. Have I finally corrupted you to the dark side?"

"Shut it, Vader." Newt hopes Thomas's vision being upside down prevents him from witnessing his awkwardness under those words. Then he tells himself that it is probably something Thomas does with his friends from New York; pass back and forth comments that moonlight as casual flirtation.

"Slim it," Thomas educates him. "Man, you and Minho are complete opposites. He picks up the slang fast." He sits back up, pushes off his shoes and finds a place against the head of the bed. "That's why I came here, actually. Minho says you told him you had too much homework? I mean, I know that isn't true."

Newt freezes in the window. He knows Thomas is expecting an explanation, and he does try to come up with something. His mind however remains traitorously blank. He could bring up the extra classes that Thomas doesn't take, or he might blame it on falling ill—which will mean putting up an act in the days to come, because his sniff isn't that bad.

Thomas rolls his eyes. "The truth, Newt?"

He looks away. "…We don't really get along."

The springs veer. Thomas is suddenly standing in front of him. "You mean _you_ don't get along with him." He tilts his head. "Which is alright, you know. You don't have to pretend that you two are friends for me. Just be honest about it."

If Thomas's unreadable expression doesn't strike up a resistance in Newt, his words will. Although there are a million reasons to keep quiet—for starters, he enjoys being around Thomas—Newt feels urged to speak. "I like him well enough, actually. But if you hadn't noticed, we don't exactly run in the same circles. I don't understand why you insist on being friends with me—", at the flicker of a wince that breaks free from Thomas's blank expression, Newt wishes he hadn't said that, "—but me and Minho live in separate worlds. We just don't mix. I thought—" His hands are clammy now. Newt hates being put on the spot like this, having to defend himself. Yesterday has been mostly Minho's fault, anyway.

"You thought…?"

Newt groans. "I thought he was playing a prank on me, alright?" He is surprised, himself, that he gives Thomas the truth. Thomas is supposed to belong to Minho's world, which means that opening himself up to him is about the worst thing Newt can do. "I'm not good with people. Fucking hell, Thomas, haven't you figured it out yet? Every time I'm supposed say something nice, something sarcastic comes out instead."

"Yeah?" 

Why can Thomas still sound so calm, whereas Newt is digging a deeper and deeper hole for himself? It confuses him when Thomas sits down on the carpet in front of him, leaning against the bed. His hands brush through off-white. If Chuck would pick this moment to eavesdrop, Newt can assure him will not survive the next week. He feels emotionally raw and ready to lash out.

But then Thomas smiles. Newt stares. The bastard is genuinely smiling. "I like that."

"What?"

"Sure," Thomas goes on to explain. Newt can read him again, but he does take note of the boy's skill to have him unwound simply by saying nothing. "You know how many people walked around me on eggshells in New York? I've had a handful of friends that were actual friends. That didn't take shit from me. Only a handful. The rest was a flock of spineless nobodies who would jump in front of a train if I asked them to. If I said something, they'd echo it. It's fun at first. Makes you feel really powerful. Then, it just becomes predictable." He waves his hand about. "None of them called me Tommy, either."

Concrete pushes against Newt's forehead. He screws his eyes shut. "…Oh my God. Minho."

Thomas grins. "Yup. Busted. Serves you right for standing him up."

"I didn't—"

"Now, don't finish that with a lie."

Newt moves his weight back to the center of the window. Thomas is quiet again, leaving him to think about what he has just said.

He is right. Minho invited him. Not Thomas. And Newt made up an excuse to get away from it.

"Shit."

"And I'll tell you, he was disappointed," Thomas adds. He says it because he thinks Newt wants to hear it; he gladly drops the case after that. "Your shift ends in ten, doesn't it? How do you feel about showing me the best place in town for lunch and I'll pay it for you?"

Newt sniffs fondly. "There he is. Everyone's darling billionaire." He needs to finish five more rooms before he can leave. With Thomas distracting him, it might all take longer than ten. He is okay with that. 

Thomas accepts the challenge. "Fine. Then I'll show you my new favourite place, and you pay."

"I'm not into caviar and vintage wine, sorry."

"I figured you weren't." Thomas looks up at Newt, the stretch long enough for Newt to wonder. "Lucky for you and me, we don't have to cross the street to get there."

 

* * *

 

Newt will admit it; he almost expected a microwave pizza in the penthouse, a poor play at class from the person who is having a double roof installed just so he doesn't have to look at marble angels and painted blue rococo skies during his morning coffee. Newt agrees with that decision, really, although he will never say it.

Instead, he finds himself in the basement, where the restaurant staff has just finished breakfast and is now getting ready for dinner. He and Thomas have immediately been ushered into the corridor that leads up to the bins and a yard with many apologies.

"So." Newt leans against the wall opposite Thomas. Thomas mirrors his stance, which would be funny if the steps weren't that narrow. "Best place for lunch in town?"

"Just discovered it yesterday, I'll admit."

Newt opens his mouth to reply, when a loud voice from inside silences him. The syllables are articulate, so they linger; the words carefully selected for impact. Without knowing this person, one could be lulled into a false sense of security. Only one person talks like that.

Janson. 

"Job well done, everyone!" he begins. Newt and Thomas look at each other. Janson is not known for being positive. "My profound appreciation for your hard effort today. Now, as you may know, we have regrettably had some miscommunication getting all the ingredients for tonight's menu from our suppliers. So I stress again that you not be wasteful with what we do have. We expect to be fully booked tonight, and we will need everything we can get."

As he speaks, Janson paces around. Frypan is among the kitchen crew, guarding the exit, so Newt knows he is safe there as long as he makes no sound. This is a private speech, one not intended for his ears, and certainly not for Thomas's.

His nose is itching, but he can not. He can not.

"Now, we have two new interns starting here tomorrow. They will be helping out on the fish and bread stations, and I expect you to give them a warm welcome."

"You mean Nick and Walt's station?" One of the more rebellious employees can't keep his mouth shut.

"…Yes, Nick and Walt's stations. Might I remind you that while I talk, I expect you to be quiet?"

"Sorry, Sir."

Janson lets it slide with an agitated gesture. "Well, then. Work hard, and you may find yourself competing for one of the two promotions I have to offer before the end of the year. Work poorly…well, I suppose you fill that sentence in for yourselves. Do your best, everyone. The Grand Paragon Hotel needs you."

For a long time after he leaves, Newt and Thomas are quiet. "Does he usually—"

"He's an ass."

"Shucking…"

Newt shakes his head. "Try not to take him too serious. Janson likes hearing himself talk."

"Talk? That was threatening t—"

Newt finally sneezes. Thomas looks up. 

"You caught a cold."

"Can everyone please stop pretending that it's the end of the world?"

Thomas moves to say something, when the door opens and Frypan pulls them back indoors. His usual brightness is somewhat dampened. "Sorry. It's cold, I know. Freaking Janson, didn't expect him here. Look, I'd love to cook you something, but as I'm sure you heard, Rat Man just put us on a really right budget here. Get me ingredients, and I will cook you the best meal you've had in years. Otherwise, I'm sorry."

Newt pushes his cold hands in his coat. He and Thomas exchange a glance. He wouldn't mind a run to the supermarket. It is right around the corner, and he has the time. Thomas bites his lip in thought.

"Can you make chicken soup if we do?"

 

* * *

 

It's almost ridiculous how mothered Newt feels while his actual mother is across the Atlantic and hasn't been informed of this pitiful display because it ought to be nothing to worry about. What he gets instead is three male substitutes making sure he eats enough, stays warm and takes his cough syrup before going to bed. His cough syrup! Prior to his diagnosis as a flu patient three days ago, Newt didn't even own cough syrup—let alone suffer the blow to his pride it would take getting it. His usual remedy, an excess of hot tea and honey, still sounds better than medicinal bloody liquorice.

His privacy is frequently trodden upon. Chuck calls him through Skype, and that's not so bad. Then there is Alby. Alby is cool, because he shares Newt's exasperation about the whole thing. Or, he is cool until that point where he agrees with his other two captors and helps them keep him indoors.

"Come on, Alb," Newt croaks with half of the words not coming out right. He has a scarf wrapped around his neck, and he is not in bed. His clothes are something other than flannel. He is making a point; sick people do not look like this. "I need to get to work today."

The thought has crossed his mind that this is payback. When Chuck got the flu, Newt called him every night. Alby had a sprained ankle once and Newt had consequently bombarded him with ointments and exercises found on the Internet.

Why Thomas shows the same hints of retribution, then, is unclear.

"And get the guests sick?"

Maybe Alby has a point there. Newt pushes the glass of orange juice back to the center of the table. His homework is piled left and right, all done. He rubs his face. "If I don't show up, Janson will have my head."

Janson, or Thomas? Newt still has his job. He is still standing, surrounded by a nationwide wave of contracts being terminated left and right. He's had the time and boredom to pick up a newspaper since becoming a prisoner of his room, but he doesn't want to ask Thomas about that.

Which brings him to his third mother hen—recently reduced to sick leave as well. Thomas is smart in class, but stupid enough not to listen when Newt tells him to back off. 

They stay up to date about their pitiful existence through messages, because misery loves company. Newt laughs when Thomas tells him pizza tastes like nothing these days, and Thomas pokes fun of Newt's abhorrence of the diet of pills and oranges people are forcing into him. He hates oranges. Somewhere along the line, Newt has forgotten that Thomas is actually rich and spoiled, and unhealthy to become friends with. They message back and forth when they are bored.

"Monday," Alby bargains.

"I'm not dying."

"Just let someone take care of you. It doesn't hurt."

"The oranges do." Alby rolls his eyes at his friend's sense of drama. It is what being a prisoner of one's own room does to Newt. "Can we go at least go for a walk?" he tries. "I miss the fresh air. Opening the windows is not enough, if you hadn't noticed. My leg has been a pest. It needs the excercise. _I_ need the excercise."

Five minutes later, he is digging his hands in his pockets, his coat and scarf drowning him the way he likes it, while grinning at Alby in the mirror of the elevator.

Alby is cool, Newt reinstates, as they make it down to street level. He feels revitalised as soon as he steps outside. Having been contained in his bed for two days seems to have done more bad than it's done him good, which comes as no surprise to Newt. Having a cold is such a minor thing. It has never stopped him from work or classes before. Now, he is going to have to catch up on classes. The only leeway he got was when his friends allowed him to take his test.

"You've been spending time with Thomas," Alby states, thereby breaking the perfect bubble Newt was just starting to enjoy. Of course. Alby isn't wrong; Newt has.

"He latched on like a puppy," he tries to defend himself. "Couldn't get rid of him."

Alby nods and ushers him into a coffee shop that looks empty enough for Newt not to pass his germs onto someone else. Newt lingers back as Alby orders two coffees to go, pausing with the cups on the counter to check his phone and smile at some message, and his gloved fingers wrap around the cup for extra warmth when he is handed his large cappuccino. He will get Alby the money back for it.

When they are back out, with both of them blowing their coffee, Alby hums. "You don't have to apologise for spending time with him. I expected you to dislike him. To be honest, I like how you are after you met him. I don't know, it's like you actually get some sleep in these days. No more homework until two."

"We do homework together," says Newt. "Saves a lot of time. Since he takes the same classes and all."

"Good that."

The subject isn't so much dropped as it drifts away with the breeze and the hum of traffic. A comfortable silence wraps around the both of them. With their hands cradling their cups, they walk alongside the busy road in peace. Newt's nose has stopped running in favour of the occasional dry cough; the only sound that is permeats the bubble without a ripple.

He feels better by the second. If he could, he would close his eyes and drift off. Newt walks this road every day when heading for work. It is only a ten minute walk from home, although he always feels like he has to hurry. Important things—making sure there's food out the freezer for when he gets home is the number one culprit here—tend present themselves when he thinks he has five more minutes. He hasn't walked the route with a hot cup of coffee and time on his side, so he enjoys it.

Until they are slowing down in front of the hotel, and that's too much of a coincidence.

"I thought you said no work today?"

Alby moves up the three carpeted steps. He nods a welcome to Winston. "Who said anything about work?"

As has been happening more frequently these days, Newt is left to wait in hope that someone sees fit to clarify things to him. But Alby gestures for Newt to come up, pulls the hood over his head to turn him into an anonymous mess of cloak and wrapping—not that anyone who knows Newt outside of work could mistake his figure—and hooks an arm into Newt's. "Look down," Alby says. "You know where the cameras are. Turn the other way."

"What's the point? People come and go every day."

"Just, not you. Not today."

Newt groans. He is ready to go back to his apartment to escape the air of pointless mystery. Yet he also considers himself intrigued. It is unexpectedly fun to be in this moment, left to wonder about what is going to happen next.

"Janson's been in a mood," Alby explains. "He can not see you here, okay? Straight to the elevator."

Newt rolls his eyes. Willing to play along, he hides himself deeper under his hood. "Be fast about it. Got it."

They cross the lobby in a stride. The elevator expects them to wait for a good minute, in which Newt actually starts feeling nervous because of what the wait does to Alby. When the doors slide open, he is dragged in. Alby tugs his hood back down when Newt tries to push it off.

"Please tell me there is no message that self-destructs in five seconds," he mutters. He finds it all rather amusing.

"No, but you are on your way to meet the big bad wolf," Alby smiles in return. He straightens when the doors give way to a familiar corridor. "This is your stop. Hood off only after you get inside."

"…You're taking me to Thomas?"

Alby shrugs. "He asked nicely."

 

* * *

 

"Alby said you didn't have anything better to do." That is the full, single line that makes up Thomas's defense. "Don't worry about getting germs on that. I've got three more. Press the middle button, please. You're obviously rusty, so we'll take the tutorial first."

Newt sits on the couch next to him. Both are covered up to the waist by a pile of fleece blankets, and the heating has been cranked up to a very pleasant temperature. He looks at the controller in his hands, then back up at Thomas.

To say he feels disillusioned is an understatement.

The next fifteen minutes, Newt spends being pushed through a world of frustration while he learns the controls of the game in front of them. "I don't see—"

"Hush," Thomas waves away his complaints. "We're going to get really good at this. Then when we're ready, I want to call Minho over and totally kick his ass. He will think we're pitiful for being ill and so he'll go slow. And that is going to be his big mistake." He glances at Newt. "You don't have to be around for that if you don't feel like it, that's totally fine. But you can still be my sparring partner now, right?"

"…Fair enough."

What are his options, really?


	4. Geopolitics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Minho time!
> 
> So uh, I had some time on my hands. And this just happened. I checked everything several times, and yet I still have trouble trusting how fast this chapter was ready to be shared with you.
> 
> Thanks for all the lovely comments. It's incredibly motivating to hear what you think <3

The lights of the city stretch out on all sides. Caught safely behind glass, they blend with the rain into a watery palette that keeps changing, shifting into something else.

The sunrise Newt used to admire during cleaning duty seem bland in comparison. He is mesmerised by the view. Wrapped in borrowed flannel and fleece, he leans his front against the leather back of the couch, just watching as rain trickles down the windows to pool on the streets surrounding Civic Center far below.

"Next time, you should see it from the balcony," tells Thomas.

"Is it like New York?" Newt wonders. He leans his chin on his arm.

"I've never had the penthouse in New York, so I don't—" Thomas mashes his controller with focus, inclines his head, "—no, not like New York. Incomparable to New York." After hours, he is still playing, and Newt lets him. He enjoys sitting there, either watching Thomas advance his skills or becoming distracted by the view outside. 

Someone should have told him to take his cough syrup by now. Someone ought to have come and told him that it's time to return home. It is ten thirty and Newt is dressed in borrowed pyjamas, so he thinks he understands the plan. "Why did you come here?" he murmurs, his eyes drooping. Newt isn't particularly interested in the answer, he just wants to listen to Thomas talk.

The sound of the game mutes. Newt withdraws himself from the view. "Bad question?"

Thomas purses his lips. "I didn't come because I wanted to."

"Mh." It is enough of an answer. "Denver isn't so bad. I'm from London originally. You might have guessed something like that by now, I suppose. My parents lived here for a few years. Expats. People still ask me. Why not go back to London? Life is so much more exciting there." Newt smiles against his arm. "Maybe after I'm done with uni. I don't know. I'm not in a hurry."

The light of the television being zapped out startles him. Thomas pushes the remote further onto the table with his socked foot. When he curls back into the couch, his eyes are alight. "What's the best thing about London?"

"Politeness." It rolls off Newt's tongue without a thought. "Bloody politeness. Someone saying sorry when they shove you in a crowd. New York?"

"Feeling like you're at the centre of everything."

"I'm not talking Times Square."

"All of this can be mine one day. I'm not talking about Times Square."

But Thomas does not look smug. He bears a sadness as Newt watches him, one that he probably does not want Newt to notice. If New York embodies power, then all Newt can deduct is that coming to Denver resembles being stripped of that. There are depths to him, layers to peel away before answers are given. In all honesty, Newt expected Thomas to be the Earth of his own geocentric universe. If what he says is true, then that might be who Thomas was in New York. "So what does Denver feel like?" he can't help but ask.

Thomas understands the parallel with ease. "Trapped," he says. "The elevator doesn't go up to this floor after a certain hour, you know. Outside of these doors, what I do is all registered. If my parents want to know, they can look up my patterns. Make sure I won't do something stupid."

"On the hallway?"

Thomas nods.

"University?"

Again.

"But not in here?"

His friend smiles humourlessly. "A gilded cage. No, not in here."

It is difficult to comprehend, especially in a hotel like this. Locking someone in at night at the top of a tower breaches several fire regulations, at the very least. That also means Newt is locked in for the night. If his friends were not aware of the clause, they would have called with an apology by now. No, his friends knew what they were doing.

"What if you get locked out?" he wonders.

"Then I'm locked out for the night."

"I'm sure you could get a different room here. Your dad owns this place."

Thomas snorts. "Right, and he has made sure that that does not happen. When I'm locked out, I'm on the streets."

"Why don't you just get a different place?"

"They'll cut my funds," says Thomas. He laughs though, no doubt at Newt's inquisitiveness, and nudges his pillowed mass with a foot. "I like it here though. Once inside, I can do whatever I want. Bugging Janson is always fun. None of the press people can get up here. No cameras; can't see through the windows from the outside. And look at the view. This room isn't so bad."

Which is what he calls a modern palace; not so bad. Newt suddenly bursts into laughing. "Not so bad?! Want to trade?"

It is a bad thing to suggest. His friend looks at him with that look—no smile, no sour face; calculating. "No," Newt says quickly. "No."

"You're sleeping over at mine," Thomas counters.

"You're not sleeping over at mine, shank. Unlike you, I haven't got three comfortable couches or a king bed." He receives no response but a proud smile. "What?"

"Shank."

"…Piss off."

Then they're both laughing. In the background, rain continues to draw watery bolts on the window, the drum of a thousand drops providing a pleasant white noise. Newt is fast falling asleep on the couch, his chuckle drifting off into a hum. He is warm and comfortable where he is.

"I like you," says Thomas.

A huff and a sleepy chuckle make up Newt's reply.

"But you're not sleeping on the couch."

As long as he can sleep, Newt doesn't care.

 

* * *

 

Despite the name, Archaeology of Death is an engaging subject that has Newt figuratively on the edge of his seat. He writes down stuff he thinks is interesting, regardless of whether it is important or likely to appear on the final test, and marks passages in his book seemingly indiscriminately.

This is the material that he goes over later, having put the book on the night stand of whatever room he is cleaning at that moment. Chuck has the same shift but is at work on an other floor, so nobody is bothered by his lack of talkativeness as he fixes the rooms of the late checkouts immaculately. Checkouts mean more work, which is why he goes over the burial rites of Samoan and Polynesian culture, moving to Aboriginal when he is done, guided by the soundtrack of quiet piano music that helps him focus his mind.

When he is done, he freshens up in the staff room, switches back into his clothes, and heads up to the top floor for homework.

Newt is eager to work on this day's classes with Thomas. He has his schedule all worked out. That is, right up until the door to the penthouse opens and it is not Thomas.

"Minho," he forces out. "Hi."

If it makes him feel better, Minho is equally surprised. He looks over his shoulder in the direction of the TV as if to ask Thomas, then turns back to Newt. "Hi. Come in."

"Er." Newt has an excuse at the tip of his tongue. He is aware that stepping in means that no homework is going to be done, but he also remembers what Thomas has said about Minho being disappointed—which still makes no sense, but that is for an other time. "He's kicking your ass, isn't he?" he asks.

Minho winces. "Big time. Help?"

"I'm not good at games." Newt tentatively smiles. He is waiting for a remark that'll send him home with his tail between his legs, like the one Minho gave him earlier. It is just that it's Minho, and Minho's stupid smile always makes Newt give him the benefit of the doubt, even if it doesn't end well for him. "I can distract him?"

"Wicked." And there is no mistaking it; Minho is decidedly relieved.

The living room is drowned in dark, bar the pulsating light that comes from the big television. They must have started the game while it was still light and forgotten to switch on some extra lighting after dark. It makes the room look different. More, Newt realises, like a dorm room. A massive one, loaded with expensive stuff, but more a student's dwelling than the perfect lighting did for it. The half finished pizza on the table further underlines it.

Newt plops onto the couch, his leg touching Thomas's on purpose, and he grins. Newt feels bold around Thomas. He doesn't know what it is. "Hey. Expected you to practice some more before taking this to the arena. So which one are you?"

On his winner's high, Thomas smugly puffs up some more.

"The right one," laughs Newt. "Right."

Minho's presence is easier to bear when Newt focuses his attention on Thomas. The boy returns to his own spot, which is the love seat on their left. He falls back into the pillows and picks up his controller, ready for the next round, but Newt uses that moment to bring up to Thomas, "We're still doing homework later, right?"

The effect on Thomas's morale is remarkable. His shoulders sag ever so slightly, his smile less broad. Thomas does not want to work on homework, or study for tests that are going to shred him. And Newt does not want to force him, which is why he concedes, "Doesn't have to be right now. I can stay over, so we can work on it after curfew."

"You've got curfew?" Minho asks incredulously.

"Ten o'clock, yeah." Thomas doesn't want to talk about it.

Newt can tell that that's not the question Minho really intended to ask. "So," he continues, making sure Minho doesn't get the chance to go for it after all, "you kick his ass until ten—"

"Hey!" Minho complains.

"—and then we make sure you actually pass your classes, so you can continue to have the time to kick his ass."

"I'm right here!"

Newt pushes his shoes off his feet and draws them up on the couch, where he curls into the corner and faces the television. "Sorry," he smiles, enjoying sweet payback for Minho's dick comment, "you shouldn't have underestimated him." Thomas bumps fists with him for it, and in return Newt shifts one leg to cross the distance between there and Thomas's leg, nudging it and staying there, as if it is magically going to give his friend the luck that he doesn't need.

He doesn't know where the need to touch him comes from. It is new and it is unexpected. Newt is not a tactile person. He doesn't hug friends until his friends hug him first, and he doesn't like it when people's bodies accidentally touch his on the train. With Thomas, there is a magnetism that makes sure some part of him is always in contact with the other. It grounds him as much as it bothers him when the space is short enough to cross but neither of them does.

When he looks up, Minho is looking at the juncture where they touch with a frown, and Newt is reminded that it is not so natural after all.

"Deal?" he asks Thomas instead.

Thomas's eyes are on his feet as well. In the dark, his pupils are wide and his lips parted, and something is going on in that head of his. "Ten o'clock." His voice is different, too. Strained. "Deal."

Newt nods to cover up the sudden tension that coils in his stomach.

They play after that. Thomas and Minho are lost to the competition between them, calling profanities back and forth whenever one loses. Usually, that is not Thomas. Newt could pay attention that Thomas is not playing at the height of his skill. He prefers instead to listen to the casual banter between him and his friend. Newt doesn't pitch in very often, as he doesn't have much to say about the subject of sports that they soon find themselves on. It proves to be a heated discussion, because they pause the game whenever one of them needs to strongly voice his opinion.

He has very little in common with Minho, and Minho never addresses him. Thomas is the middle man among them. When he talks with Minho, Thomas talks about different things. He gets excited about which sportsmen he likes, talks about people and classes at university; television shows they both follow.

Newt wants to be able to join in. Except he doesn't own a television, a fact that seems petty to bring up now. His laptop overheats before he can get ten minutes into an episode, and his phone ought to be able to handle it, but then the number of commercials invariably frustrate him to the point of quitting early.

He remains quiet while they talk about their favourite characters. Absently, his toes nudge a pattern against Thomas's leg.

"Hey, Newt." Minho's voice pulls him out of his laziness. "You should really watch it some time. It's really cool."

Does he want to admit once again that he can't?

"I've got it on my drive," Minho says though. "Since Thomas proved his point like an hour ago, might as well accept defeat and watch the first ep, if you like. I mean, if Thomas is okay with that."

It isn't homework and it isn't an other game, which is why Thomas now turns to Newt for unspoken permission. It wasn't part of the plan.

"Please," Newt nods gratefully.

 

* * *

 

Ten o'clock comes too fast for Newt. Without the commercials and with the crisp quality and the large screen, he is hooked to the show in a matter of a mere three scenes. He falls so deeply into the world that he asks for the next episode as soon as the end credits roll, and is impatient when Thomas decides he wants something to drink first, which pauses the episode until he returns from the kitchens with three cans of soda.

At fifteen to ten, Minho's phone buzzes. After Thomas told him about the elevators, the boy has set his alarm. It now rings in the middle of a crucial scene, startling Newt from his immersion with a groan. "Five more minutes," he pleads. After Minho leaves, they do need to get started on their homework. "We'll still have ten left."

"You watch it," chuckles Minho while searching for his shoes. "I've seen it all anyway."

Still, Thomas switches off the television to Newt's disappointment—which lasts to the point where a thumb rubs his foot, and brings him back to the present with startling clarity and a quiet gasp.

Minho glances at them.

Newt scrapes his throat. He sits up stiffly. "Homework," he says. "More TV when we're done."

Neither of them expect the doorbell.

"What…?"

Thomas comes to a conclusion first. "Shit."

"Thomas?" calls the man on the other side of the door. "Thomas, please open up. I have a key, but I'd rather not use it. It's time for your guests to leave." The voice is chiding and polite; amused and friendly but with the promise of danger. Janson.

Newt blanches on the couch. In front of the door, Minho—who was just putting on his jacket—is leaning forward like a cornered animal, ready to strike.

"No, it's not!" Thomas hisses loud enough to be heard. "This is my room, and that means it's none of your business." He hates Janson; the emotion bleeds from every fibre of his being.

"You mean you don't mind if your parents find out you are having two young men stay the night? Come on, Thomas. This isn't preschool any more; you know what they will think about that. Please don't make this embarrassing for yourself and open the door. Tomorrow is an other day."

But Janson is already embarrassing Thomas. Newt flushes at the implications, which draws Thomas's attention and fuels his fury towards Janson further. Whatever has happened between them, it is serious. "We were doing homework! Do you want my parents to be informed that you are purposefully making me fail my classes? Yeah, they'll love _that_!"

Janson breathes in. "Boy," he warns in a single world that reveals his nature. Then the lock rattles, and the door opens. As the penthouse is still a hotel room, there are no bolts from the inside; Minho's hurried search comes up empty, and he has to step back when the door opens in his direction.

Janson sighs, his hands up in an exasperated gesture. "Minho Park. Of course, firing you wasn't enough to get rid of you. Come along, boy." He turns to Newt. "You, too. Homework on the couch with no books in sight?" Then he shakes his head at Thomas. "Didn't anyone tell you lying is offensive? I expected better from you."

"Don't listen to him," Thomas says to Newt and Minho.

The thing is, Janson has nothing to use against Minho. Newt on the other hand is a step away from being fired. If he rebels and stays, which he is sure he can pull off, then that means having to find an other job. And he does like his job. Janson has never given him trouble before, and his coworkers are nice.

"…I'll message you," he replies with his eyes cast down, slipping back into his shoes. Newt hopes Thomas hears the underlying implication. What Janson does is intrusive and a display of his need to control, and Newt hates him for it. "I can come back tomorrow."

Thomas is powerless when Minho follows the other two out the door, leaving them alone in the room when the door falls shut, locking him in for the night. It is a sight that breaks Newt's heart.

The elevator ride is strung in tension. Minho glares at Janson in the mirror, whereas Newt tries not to catch anyone's eyes. Janson stands rigid in the middle of it, a robot with a pleased tug at the edge of his mouth as the only indication that he takes enjoyment out of this.

"Slinthead," Minho hisses under his breath when they are released onto the street.

Next to him, Newt finally breathes out.

He does not want to go. His apartment is cold and lifeless. All he will be able to think of is passing classes. It does not compare to how nice last few hours have been. How not alone he has felt.

"Where do you live?" Minho asks him eventually. Newt gestures left along the road, waves to suggest that it isn't far. He just doesn't feel like walking back. But Minho starts heading that direction, and with his hands in his pockets and a final frustrated sound, he automatically follows.

The other boy doesn't speak. In the black of the night, with the weight of books and unfinished homework hanging from his shoulder, Newt doesn't either. They walk in a silence that might not be comfortable, but isn't all that uncomfortable either. Janson has put his mark on the rest of the evening, just like he puts his mark on everything.

Eventually Newt grasps for his earphones. He offers Minho one, since for some reason Minho is still there. Soothing piano music fills the void between them. Newt likes it for studying; this time however, it eases out the agitation and it calms his nerves. And Minho, despite how uncool the music obviously is, just puts his side into his ear and listens to it without commenting.

Newt doesn't want to go home. Something is stuck in his chest, locked like a bird in a cage too small.

At last, he stops in front of the flat. Minho returns the ear bud, and Newt smiles. "Thanks," he says. "You didn't have to." It is only ten minutes, and probably opposite of Minho's direction.

Minho smiles and shrugs. "No problem." 

It is a simple gesture, one that poorly disguises how many thoughts are at work in the runner's head. Probably about getting back at Janson, Newt fathoms. He nods his head and turns.

And Minho suddenly blurts out, "Are you two seeing each other?"


	5. Hunters and Gatherers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of stuff happening! I used up every bit of my free time to give you this, and inwardly cried and cheered while I plotted it all out in my head during my day job. So, without further ado, I really hope you like the product of some good old emotional investment :)

Sleep escapes Newt that night.

One moment he is curled up and thinking. The other, he looks up at the ceiling with a blank mind. Newt keeps glancing at his phone, where a single message waits. The white indicator blinks mercilessly impatient against his pillow, begging his attention. Submerging himself under the sheets in order to forget about it proves to be futile; he has turned his phone over to muffle the light against the cotton, and it has been equally pointless. Newt knows it is there, and that is enough.

The white noise that belongs to the city is too far away tonight. Usually a welcome friend, he has nothing left to divert his attention to.

The problem with the message is the label that accompanies it. Unknown Number. After what has happened, part of Newt fears it is Janson, bringing him an official warning. He hasn't done anything wrong to warrant it, but it is very like that he ruffled the man's feathers simply by being in the room when he and Thomas clashed. If it's Janson, then Newt is in trouble.

A bigger part is worried that it's Minho's.

 

* * *

 

A dead silence settles after the question, like the buzz of damaged hearing after a night out. Newt stands shell-shocked. His grasp of reality slows down until he can see the frequency of the fluorescent tube lamps above the entrance of his flat, flickering impatiently while Minho expects an answer.

"Excuse me?" Newt asks.

"Uh." Minho has blanched and taken a few steps back. He likes repeating his question as much as Newt likes his reply being treated as an actual question, which is to say, not at all. "You and Thomas?"

"What about it?" Newt asks. His intent is to make Minho drop the subject, because Newt doesn't know the right way to answer. This is the kind of subject that will cause problems for him any which way he responds. Thankfully, Minho too is starting to look uncomfortable.

"Newt, come on, you heard me."

Minho's embarrassment reactivates back Newt's defence. It hardens his voice. "I heard you speculate. The question is, why does it matter to you?" 

Obviously, Minho does not expect his question to backfire. He blinks and shifts his weight onto his other foot. His hands are awkwardly pushing into his pockets. Newt becomes aware that he is no longer the only one who wants to get away from this—it is Newt who has the upper hand now. He can't let that go. "I like spending time with him, if that's what you want to know," he says. "But I'm not sleeping with him."

Only a handful of people knows he is gay. Alby knows, and Chuck suspects. And now, there's Minho. Minho who has a lot of friends and who likes to talk big. Newt feels his frame crumble. Getting through classes might just get a lot more difficult from now on. "I'd appreciate it if you don't talk to him about this," he breathes out, tired now. "Please, okay?"

Minho quickly nods. "Sure. Uh. Sorry, I didn't mean—"

A single nervous laugh escapes Newt. "You didn't mean. Right. You didn't mean. I'm gay, Minho. There, that's what you wanted to hear, is it not? But I respect that you're not, and I'd really like you to be okay with it, because I had a good time tonight. All right?" He needs to stop talking. It is not healthy to be declaring these things at ten thirty in the evening, in front of his flat, with all of his neighbours possibly listening in. Newt is shaking as he fumbles with the key. "Please?" he whispers. He wants to go.

Minho won't meet his eyes. He doesn't need to; his rigidity has Newt tethered. For some reason though, Minho looks neither disgusted nor any of the things Newt's mind supplies he should logically be. "I keep offending you without meaning to," Minho says. "Sorry. I thought I saw something, when you were sitting next to him. It's none of my business. I just, I couldn't let it go." He offers a smile in consolation. "I already knew you go for men, you know."

The keys hit the pavement.

Newt's fingers scrape against the pavement. Then he scrambles inside, onto the steps, and doesn't stop until his lungs cry for him to breathe.

 

* * *

 

The indicator is smothered for a good forty minutes of rampant thoughts before Newt can no longer stand it. Not knowing is what has kept his sleep at bay, and he is tired.

_Spare phone. Suspect the other one was wired. Poke me back. Thomas._

Newt cracks and laughs. This is what he has been worrying over; Thomas owning a spare phone. Not the end of the world, just a rich kid with an extra phone.

_Just how many spare phones have you got?_ he types back.

_I have a feeling you'll be upset if I tell you_ , comes the instantaneous answer. Newt considers that. Yes, yes he probably would. He readies himself to reply, when three dots reappear in the screen. _You're back late. Everything all right? I mean, aside from Janson._

Newt still can't believe that this is what kept him up. _Minho dropped me off,_ he decides on a truth bend so he can talk to someone about his frustration without setting off any alarm bells. _We talked some. Thought your number was Janson's. Didn't want to read it. You okay? Did he come back up after we left?_

He doesn't receive a reply for a few minutes, though Thomas is definitely active on his phone. Newt waits, huddled between the sheets and the mattress. He thinks his sleep is finally coming to him, when a hum in the dark rouses him and informs him of activity.

_No more Rat Man. If he ever sends you a message, I'm buying you a new phone. Talking to Minho too. Can I add you? Easier that way._

Which has Newt back to being right awake. Is it acceptable to say no? To pretend to have fallen asleep with his face on his phone, or not to have heard the message?

Does he want Minho to have his number?

Newt stifles a sound under his pillow.

_Newt?_

He bites into his arm. This is just—

_Sure_ , he types back.

He's a sucker, that is the problem. Newt pretends to have a big mouth, but that is because it is too easy to talk him into things. He knows that. His screen is now bursting with activity because of this single flaw in his design. If he wants to go back on his words, it is now too late.

He saves both their numbers ritually as he mentally prepares for this.

_Hi Newt_ , Minho bothers him. _Just now got home._

He has written other messages that Newt takes a moment to browse through. It is a lot of banter. To his surprise, Newt doesn't find what he is looking for. Minho has not uttered a word about what has passed between them.

Thomas is typing now. _We were talking about Janson. Something needs to be done about him._

_Technically,_ Newt brings up, _all you need are some deadbolts. Hi Minho._ He's not nearly comfortable enough to address the runner by the same nickname.

_Boring._ This seems to be a consensus that Thomas and Minho share. In fact, the more they talk, the more Newt believes they have already decided on a plan and are just talking him through it out of courtesy.

It is like the conversation outside hasn't happened. Minho is his usual cheerful self. He never drops hints or treats Newt with a newfound inhibition. If something has changed, then it is rather that he involves Newt more often while he and Thomas talk. Newt wonders if Minho has the exchange on his mind while he replies, thinking that one of the two people he messages is gay and that he suspects him of liking the other guy. That must be awkward.

_So._ Thomas. _This Friday. Don't tell anyone you don't trust, because if word gets out, this gets back to him and the whole thing is off._

_Tell them what?_

_It's a surprise. 9 pm, my place. I'll tell you all about it tomorrow._

_Didn't you just talk to Minho about it?_

Silence.

_On a different phone. I wiped it._

_Wow._

_Shut up, it's going to be perfect. Hey, Min. I'm off to bed anyway. Tell him when I'm out of here, okay? That should be safe enough._

_Sure thing!_ says Minho. _See ya._

_Night!_

Newt leans his cheek on his pillow. Now that he is awake and no longer afraid, he does not want to end it at that. He has bolted so rudely from Minho, and Minho has been a gentleman about it. Maybe he should show some initiative and thank him for that, as well as apologise about it all. Newt overreacted.

A private message pops up. It is another private number. _Too bad we didn't get a chance to do our homework. Was looking forward to it. I'm keeping this number, by the way. Please add me._

Warmth blossoms in Newt's stomach. _Let's not study at your place until you have those bolts,_ he returns. Which might be bordering on too suggestive, but he will invoke plausible deniability if he has to. _Night, Tommy._

The reply is retyped twice. In the end, it reads simply, _Night, Newt._

Newt melts into his mattress. Maybe nothing is going on between them—Thomas is probably a very physical person—but damn, Newt likes to think there is.

_Dude._

Minho waits for it.

_Dude! Did you fall asleep on me?_

Newt smiles in the dark and switches conversations. Maybe Minho isn't so bad. He ends up apologising, because it's something that he wants to do. He does not feel forced about it, really. Minho deserves the decency.

In return, Minho lays out the plan. It is the stupidest, most awful plan. In fact, it is so simple that a five-year-old could have come up with it. It is irresponsible and it is asking for trouble.

And if it works, it is going to give Janson the biggest nightmare of a lifetime.

 

* * *

 

The rest of the week, Newt does his homework on his own. Thomas shows up in class and tries to absorb as much of it as he can, which is something new. He goes through this new routine daily, gone as soon as the class ends. On Thursday, he is so tired that he is down to wearing glasses because his red-rimmed eyes no longer take contacts. Alby informs him that Minho lives along the same patterns. 

_I am studying,_ Thomas promises Newt when Newt expresses that this project is starting to concern him. There are tests they need to prepare for. If Thomas doesn't get back on track before Sunday, it won't look good for him. But _I'll make it up to you,_ is what Thomas says in reply. As if it is Newt's problem that Thomas runs the risk of failing his classes.

And so Newt tries his best to get some information to stick in his head before the end of the week rears its head.

From Friday morning on, he too is a lost cause.

Newt hasn't properly seen Thomas all week. They talk through messages, just like Minho sometimes sends him a picture of what the two are working on. Which is definitely a new development. Newt keeps those pictures to himself, because he doesn't know what Alby or Chuck have to say about it, and falls into the habit of replying with a picture of his own. As soon as compositions of text books and markers become boring, he switches to silly stuff like a cup of tea he's just made, or a blurry one of the alarm clock for that time Minho figured it'd be cool to send a picture at 3 AM. Which means, Thomas and Minho are still up at 3 AM.

On Friday afternoon, an hour after the last class, Newt receives a picture of Minho and Thomas looking suave in a tux. Newt has gotten used to vague artistic snapshots of details that leave him guessing, which is why the picture catches him unaware and turns him into a monolith in the milk aisle for a good few seconds.

First of all, Newt hasn't been aware of the dress code. He has a nice combination picked out and ready for him in his apartment, but it's not that formal. If he is honest, it is not all that special to begin with. He has no money to afford or rent something for the occasion, which is to say that he is now aware he is going to stick out like a sore thumb tonight.

Secondly, they look good. Both of them. 

_Handsome, no?_ Minho sends.

_You're idiots,_ Newt returns. _Very handsome. Now get me one of those as well._

The response waits until he is reaching for a gallon of skimmed milk. He stops what he's doing at once to read it.

_Suit or contents? T._

An old lady mutters as she walks around him to get two cartons.

Thomas is there. Of course, him being in the picture should have been enough to jump to that conclusion. But Thomas is also using Minho's phone. Newt needs to say something back, something that is both witty and decent, since they are undoubtedly both reading it—not that Thomas has kept himself in check. _Hi T. Start with the suit,_ he types in reply, biting his thumb as he waits for the answer.

He expects something saying either that there is no more time, or that it has been taken care of—since Newt borrowed Thomas's pyjama once, roughly guessing his size can't be too hard—and so he goes beet red when Minho sends him an other picture, which is a detail of Thomas pretending to unbutton his top half. His face is cut in half by the frame, but it's stupidly hot.

He is friends with these losers—losers that, in a normal world, wouldn't have bothered with Newt's company. But they do, and they are making his heart race.

_Just come over here. M_ , buzzes in his hands.

He takes a picture of the milk aisle. _You're distracting me._

They send him another picture of Thomas. He's buttoning back up, making a show of looking disappointed. Newt shakes his head with a smile. What is wrong with these two? Thomas knows exactly how to play him, and Minho lets him. _Thanks for the lovely blackmail pics though. Be there asap. Don't go anywhere._

_Cool. We're sending out invitations now. If you want anyone to come, just ask them._

Newt decides he really should get his mind out of the gutter and round up his groceries as fast as he can. He ignores half his list, because most of that isn't a necessity, and runs through the motions of checkout, carrying his stuff home and gathering what he needs from the table.

A party in the penthouse of the Grand Paragon. It is mad. Anyone who wants to come will have to pretend to be a hotel guest. Thomas will by now have tried to get as much staff on board as he can trust, but even so, none of the others can notice a thing until Janson's intervention comes too late. Thomas will have undoubtedly installed the necessary precautions to keep the manager out. But Janson does not control the elevator, and he certainly won't be able to control a crowd like that. As long as everyone is still up there at ten, it'll be a success.

Newt sends a message to Alby, Chuck and Frypan He opts for a quick shower to make himself less student chic in whatever it is that he'll be wearing. He dresses in his original outfit to be safe.

Then he gathers courage.

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, Thomas and Minho did have a suit for him. It's not black like theirs, but the sandy tweed fits him like a glove and suits him unexpectedly well. Since Newt is not used to wearing anything like it, he has spent his first fifteen minutes getting used to it. He still moves awkwardly and feels like an idiot.

"You're gonna set hearts on fire," Thomas said to him after he first stepped out of the bathroom in his new outfit. That is a lifetime ago now. Newt has claimed a spot on his familiar spot on the couch, which has been moved to the corner so the rest of the living room can accommodate the dance floor. A mass of bodies pulses to the beat of the drum.

It is five past ten, and Janson has been at the door twice. The first time, Thomas has given him the finger and closed the door in his face. That was fifteen past nine, when Janson must have first caught on that guests were arriving in small flocks, none of them checking in. It is likely that most guests just rode the elevator straight up to the penthouse instead of getting off at different floors and walking the last flights of stairs to avoid early suspicion, like asked in the invitation.

The second time, Janson did not mess around when he engaged hotel security to keep any and everyone from reaching the top floor. But people got creative.

Now, the elevator has stopped its service for the night and those who have made it are here to stay until morning, when the elevator unlocks at six. Which is essentially everyone. Janson is undoubtedly trying to rack his brain coming up with a solution to the elevator dilemma, but he isn't doing it at the top floor.

The plan worked.

Newt just can't remember why he thought it was a good idea to come.

Sure, Alby comes back from the crowd to have a chat with him so frequently that he sits next to Newt more than he is out there. Chuck on the contrary acts like he has died and gone to heaven. He drops by only when he needs a drink. Newt is asked again and again by both of them to just come out and have some fun.

Newt is fine where he is though. He smiles as he catches glimpses of Minho and Thomas in the crowd. They are far away from him, caught in a bubble of socialising and laughing with friends, and Newt is content to watch them go about it, just like he encourages Chuck to have the time of his life, as long as he promises to keep low on the alcohol.

He takes a swig from the jam jar that serves as his glass—a touch of Minho, who claimed having seen it on some website and thinking it was cool. A pleasant buzz is starting to form, and whenever someone near him laughs, he finds himself laughing along. He barely hears half of what anyone is saying.

"Come on," Alby offers a hand as his form pulls apart from the rest of the people. "You're at a proper party now. Act like it. It's been too long since I've seen you dance."

"I can't—" He laughs. "No, Alby. No."

"Yes, Newt. Come on. Look around. There's no homework to be done here, and you sure as hell aren't going to sleep. Might as well enjoy it. Half of us are too drunk to remember much in the morning anyway."

Newt passes up with a chuckle and a shake of his head. His cheeks are rosy now. He is okay where he is. It just isn't his thing. Or perhaps, if he is honest, then it might be his thing if both his legs were working like they ought to—and if he didn't feel like going in there is like stepping in amongst the vultures.

"Did you ask someone?" he remembers Thomas asking him when Newt joined him on the couch. That was before the first people had trickled in. Their fancy suits had created a distance that Newt suddenly hadn't been sure he was allowed to cross. Thomas in a formal suit is Thomas on a different level, and Newt is reminded time and again of the social gap that yawns between them when he sees him in the crowd.

He still looks good with his jacket opened and the first buttons of his shirt undone, his hair matted to his face. It is his smile that does it, that almost draws Newt to his feet and through the throng to be close to that.

"Powerless," Thomas smiled when Newt had asked him about Janson. "The curfew has been programmed in after I got here by one of my dad's people. They can't bring in a mechanic of that level within three hours."

"Besides, if he does that, we go all out. Fire alarm, throw it all open." Minho.

Newt had stared at the boy's smug attitude. Back then, that thought had scared him. If it had come to that, it would have destroyed Newt's chances at keeping his job, and it might have resulted in Thomas being thrown out.

A hand had tucked his hair back into shape and startled him. "We won't. If we can't get out, then we're bringing the world in." Thomas had been unexpectedly serious as he said it. It was a rebellion. "Janson will learn not to treat people like subjects that he can push around to his heart's content tonight."

"Okay." Newt had nodded slowly. "I think I'm going to need alcohol."

He is still in the same spot as he was then, an hour later. He swirls his drink in its glass and regards the haze around him. Newt doesn't know which one of the two is responsible for the idea, but thick smoke has begun to curl around dancing bodies and blurs the edges of reality.

He catches another glimpse of Thomas. He's dancing with someone now. There is a slur to his movements that indicates he is not yet far enough to be gone, although he is definitely affected.

Newt smiles at his friend as he dances around the shadow, until their shapes coil too closely together, and do not disentangle. All of a sudden, it stops being fun. A shiver rattles his body, and Newt start to shake. He grasps the jar involuntarily and holds his breath. One second. Two.

Five.

Then, he wants to run.

"Hey." Alby returns next to him. He is pushing his phone into Newt's periphery, unaware that Newt is looking down for other reasons. "Look at this. That's not—that's not good, Newt."

Newt wants to scream. Of course it isn't good. He is locked in a room with two people who have made him their witness to the planning of it all but who haven't come to talk to him once since the party started. By now he is beginning to wonder if it has all been a joke to begin with. Become friends with the outcast, and make him feel like he fits in. Then remove him from the equation, with a bonus for feelings trodden.

It has been a wonderful daydream, but now Newt is breathing hard and trying to calm down. It's okay. It's okay, because no harm has been done. Thomas does not know. Something yanks his insides and blocks his throat, and Newt feels like an idiot for having believed it in the first place.

Eight hours remain between now and the moment he can go.

"Newt," Alby's voice comes back into focus. "Newt, are you with me?" He leaves the phone where it is as he crouches in front of him to catch his attention. "What's wrong?"

"I'm stupid," Newt attempts a smile. The last thing he needs is for one of them to catch him breaking into tears, so he tries. Fails. "I'm not having a good time. Sorry."

"Newt…"

"I'm going to go to the bathroom," he says. It is on the other side of the room, but it has a lock, which is what Newt wants. "Help me get out of here?"

"Of course." Alby helps him up. He shields his friend as they push through the crowd. Whenever someone looks at them oddly, Alby simply says that he drank too much. It is enough to make people lose their interest in the pair and return to what they were doing without a second glance, for which Newt is grateful.

The spotless white and gold welcome him with open arms as he pulls the door shut behind him, locks it, and crumbles. He's an idiot in a fancy suit. Worse, he is making an idiot of himself by acting like this and spoiling the night for his friends, and he hates himself for it.

_Thanks_ , he messages Alby outside the door. _Sorry again. It's stupid._ He rubs the wetness from his eyes and takes a deep breath. It is better in the bathroom. He is on his own, which is when Newt feels best. Some people need the company of others; for him, it is the void that is his element.

_Thanks for being a friend,_ he adds to the messages waiting to be read. Newt is repeating himself. _Go have fun. You wanted to show me something. Send me? I'll be back in a bit._

Newt does not expect a fast answer. He looks at himself in the mirror, then the single toothbrush neatly placed in a glass under it. The bathroom has gained a personal touch since Thomas moved in. A few white spatters mar the mirror's surface—toothpaste, most likely. The rug on which he stands has shifted to the side. No longer pristine and perfect, it suits him.

The safe hidden under the sink is locked, he notices as he sits down on the floor. The penthouse has many hidden safes, and Newt forgot about this one. He idly tries a few turns to keep his mind blank, and chuckles when he is obviously unsuccessful.

His phone vibrates on the marble next to him. Alby has sent him a link to a news site. Curiosity piqued, Newt clicks it. He waits for the page to load through the poor wireless reception that is the result of the bathroom having been a fortified panic room once.

_Paragon Group CEO suspected of fraud_ , reads the headline.

Newt sits up immediately. Forgotten is his poor excuse of a love life when he scans the article fast, before going over it once again to make sure he grasps the full extent of what is being said.

Ronald Watts Faraday—Thomas's father, and the owner of the place that Newt works at—is under investigation for tax fraud. The article mentions the trend of the company's dropping stock over the course of the last few months, as well as their son being moved out of New York around the same time that Faraday first fell under suspicion.

Above the article is a picture of a man in his fifties while he gives a speech. The caption reads, _Faraday at last September's Good Will Charity, where he donated $200.000 for the battle against poaching. Faraday is known for being an avid supporter of the cause of endangered species._ He doesn't look as kind and generous as the caption means to make the reader believe; something calculated rests in the way he looks.

It is an article from earlier that week. Newt watches the date until it clicks. It is the same date that Janson forced Minho and him to leave the penthouse before curfew. Thomas must have known.

So the party, all of it…

_Dude, where are you?_ Minho sends him. _I can't find you anywhere._

Newt snorts. _Miss me?_ It is easy to fall back into old habits. He knows the charade is over by now, and Minho will reply with something witty before returning where he belongs—at the heart of the party. Newt is okay with that. Numb, he waits for the words.

_Yes, you shank. Glad to hear you're not passed out somewhere, but seriously, where are you?_

Newt reads the message again and again. He tries to find the clue that confirms his theory, but it doesn't sound like anyone is making fun of him. _Bathroom_ , he types back and sends before he thinks that he should probably not have given that away. To save his face, Newt adds, _Very comfortable here, actually. I was getting tired of everyone asking me to dance. Didn't expect the outfit to have this much of an effect._

_Right, you've been on the couch too long,_ decides Minho. _Been waiting for you to get off and join us, but it looks like I have to remind you who you're here with._ He follows up with a picture. It loads as slow as the article did. Minho is looking at the camera, which he holds up high. His skin is glistening, his eyes bright. There is little more than smoke in the background.

His chin leans on Thomas's shoulder. The other boy smiles into the camera as well, his head resting against Minho's. Newt thinks they almost look like a couple. The golden two boys. Except Thomas has just made out with someone, and the fatigue in his eyes betray that he is trying to block something out.

It is a picture Newt thinks he will keep. It's a nice one. He smiles sadly. _I'm not your date, Minho. It's cool. Have fun._

The conversation drops and dies at that, drowning Newt back in silence. His infatuation with all the things Thomas has brought along when he stepped into Newt's life has been nice while it lasted, he tells himself. Tomorrow, he will work hard on his tests and restore balance to his private corner of the universe. As for now, the bathroom is not a bad place to sit a while longer.

Thomas breaks the silence.

_Are you going to mope by yourself, or are you going to let me in?_

Newt stares at the boldness. _Pardon?_

_Open the door, Newt._ A knock underlines the request. When Newt doesn't respond, Thomas adds, _Please?_

When he looks him in the eye, Newt's eyes are puffy. Thomas does not fare much better. They stare at each other for a moment, before his friend pushes in and shuts the door behind them. It is locked blindly behind Thomas's back. "Are you going to tell me what is wrong?" he asks. "Minho is worried about you."

Newt shrugs. He doesn't want to talk to Thomas, nor make Minho feel better. Admitting that he saw Thomas kiss someone is like admitting that it affects him.

"Did something happen?" Thomas implores. Worry is laced through his words. He has no clue. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but shit, Newt, is there anything I can do? I can put on other music if you don't like it? If you're tired, I'll get you the bedroom key. There's no need to lock yourself up in the bathroom, unless you drank too much. But you haven't had too much, right? I mean, one wine and two cokes or something?"

A smile breaks loose. "Three cokes. How do you even know that?"

"What?" Thomas replies offended, relieved in return. "Of course we do. You think we just dropped you off on the couch to ditch you? Minho has been bugging me constantly to get you to dance." He pauses. "Oh. Newt, seriously?"

Newt purses his lips, helpless.

Thomas pats his legs once. His arm extends to Newt. "Well. You don't think we were dressing up or turning you into a handsome fellow for someone else's benefit, now do you? I get the leg thing, so I won't ask for a lot. But one song?"

The teasing tone is back between them. It has become a comfortable one, one which Newt feels at ease around. He wants badly to tell Thomas that he knows about his father. The right time for that never comes. Thomas looks back to how he is supposed to be, all cocky and bright and accessible, and Newt doesn't want to spoil it.

"One song," he concedes.

 

* * *

 

The smoke wraps around him like fog in a meadow. It swirls when the people move and blends with the colours of the light. For the one song that was promised, they paint Newt's world and all the bodies in it in a scarlet red.

He almost laughs when he thinks about all the reasons that have kept him off the dance floor before. Dancing is not in Newt's blood. He sticks to the beat, which is as much as he can manage. It is enough. Newt is aware that others are far more graceful than he is—others are a lot worse—but he doesn't care about that, now that he is here. The smoke grants him comfortable anonymity as it sections off everyone except those in his nearest vicinity.

It isn't getting the moves right that occupies his thoughts—it are the two pairs of hands on his hips. The breath that skims his neck, of which he knows not the exact owner. The crowd is packed tightly together, while not enough to bring them this close out of necessity. One song, Thomas promised. But this isn't how Newt expected to divide his attention between the two of them.

He will ask Thomas about the person he kissed later. Minho, about whether he understands that these actions do not exactly align with his orientation. 

Not one interpretation can take these events and push them back into the scope of platonic friendship, Newt thinks as Thomas takes one hand, pulls him out of the crowd and into the muted confines of the bedroom, and kisses him up against the inside of the door, while Newt's other hand is still holding onto someone else.


	6. Legacies of Conquest

A knock on the door wakes him.

Newt forces open his eyes and groans. The sun is up, casting an orange hue onto his skin and the sheets, but for him it is still too early. He glances at the clock. 9:42 AM, on a Saturday. Whoever is out there, Newt has no sympathy for him. He rolls onto his stomach for warmth. "Yes?"

"Mr. Faraday?" asks the voice. Either the room must be locked, or the man has enough decency not to come into someone's bedroom when there are people inside.

Newt squishes his face back into the pillow. "Mh. No, sorry." It would be nice if he could add an hour of sleep to the little he has managed so far. He doesn't have a shift, and studying can surely wait until the end of his headache.

"Sir? Can you step out of the room, please?"

Disgruntled with the questions, he looks down at himself to check if he's decent. It registers at that point that this is not his bed—but he wouldn't mind if it was, because it can fit three people—and that a human shape is waking up next to him. Although Newt is definitely still wearing enough to ensure that what has happened has not gotten out of hand, he is afraid of turning around. 

The night comes rushing back at him. The kisses. The fever that heated his skin and blocked out everything else but electrifying contact; a body atop his own, with hands that cupped his cheeks or brushed skin above the loosened hem of his shirt.

"Sir?"

"Yes!" he groans. "All right, all right! Give me a minute."

"…Newt?"

Newt freezes. The voice is sleepy and confused; it is also definitely awake. And by its sound, he recognises the owner.

The other rolls onto his back. He rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands, every bit as cranky as Newt feels. Mornings like these, when half of the world doesn't make sense and whatever memories he has made are still being processed, aren't allowed to be disturbed by strangers. "Make him slim it."

"Sir? Is someone else in the room with you?"

"What does it bloody sound like?" Newt throws back. He wants to hurt someone, badly. Then get out of here fast. The situation has become ten times more embarrassing with a guy addressing him as 'Sir' outside the door. He doesn't look at Minho when he finds his shoes—he wants to, but he needs his head clear—and straightens his shirt, then informs loudly, "I'm opening the door now," to allow his company the chance to either cover himself up or make a different decision fast.

The intensity of the light outside temporarily blinds him. Newt squints his eyes. "Yes?"

"What's your name?"

"For goodness' sake. Newt Clarke. Who are you?"

"Officer John Morris, Denver Police Department." The man holds up something. "Is Mr. Faraday in the room?"

"…No, he's not. Is this on record?"

"Depends," says the man. Newt discerns him wearing a uniform and waving a badge into his view. "What are you doing in Mr. Faraday's room?"

Newt stares long and hard at the man. He doesn't care how official the guy gets; he is thoroughly pissed off by now. "Sleeping, obviously. As was someone else. Minho Park, if you need his name. Thomas isn't here. Frankly, I just woke up and I have no idea where he's gone, but if you find him, I'd really appreciate it if could tell him I need to see him." He looks him over once, and decides to go for awkward. "A private matter, I'm sure you can understand."

Later, he will blame his insubordination on being sleep-meddled, cranky, and confused as hell. He is aware of what Thomas and he have done in that bed. Minho, technically, has not done so much. But Minho is still there, and Thomas is not, and Newt gets breathless just thinking about what has happened. He needs space to figure out what it means. At the moment, he lets his gaze move to what has once been the penthouse, before he stares at it in astonishment.

The place reeks of beer and wine, with an undertone decidedly made up of human sweat. Although the furniture is still all in one piece and no windows have been broken, the place looks absolutely ransacked. Stains mark once spotless carpets, and there are jam jars and bottles everywhere. Newt doesn't know how everyone got away at the start of the day without waking him up.

Then again, Newt has been sort of distracted.

"It goes without saying," a sharp voice cuts in from his left, "that you are no longer expected to come back on Monday."

Janson eyes him sharply. His words are full of venom as he looks Newt over from his position, leaning against a window with his hands behind his back, and Newt feels his jaw tighten. Of course Janson is here. After taunting him with powerlessness over ending an unsanctioned party like they had, it is only expected that he is present now.

"Half of the hotel staff was here yesterday," he objects with a sinking heart. God, not this. Not now. "You'd have to fire all of them. Why me?"

"Because you're the one I caught red-handed."

"Fuck you." 

It isn't Newt, and he blinks and whirls around to look at the source of the words. Minho's glare shoots daggers at Janson as he stumbles sleepily into the living room, his eyes half shut. Newt is suddenly grateful to have him there, because Minho won't let himself be censored by a chance to win back his job. Minho will actually say what Newt thinks. "Where's Thomas?" the other demands. "What did you do to him?"

The man who first addressed Newt scrapes his throat. "We are looking for him too." A team, Newt notices, is at work around the place, documenting the poor state of the penthouse for their archives, and searching for irregularities. "If there is anything you might be able to tell us…"

"Why are you looking?" asks Minho.

"As I'm sure you've heard, his father—"

Newt nods impatiently for the officer to get on with it, that he is aware of the situation. Minho is not.

"—Long story short," the officer sighs, "Thomas Faraday is wanted for questioning. A lot of money has gone missing from the books. We suspect he might know more about it."

If Newt has considered sending Thomas a text message before, it is that explanation which tells him that whatever Newt sends, it won't reach its destination. Thomas will be on a different phone. To think they consider him a fugitive is a ridiculous notion. For causing a disturbance with the party? Sure, guilty as charged. But not for embezzling money.

Newt spends an hour trying to help without actually ratting out Thomas, which turns out not to be that hard. Newt has no idea where Thomas has gone. If he allows his mind to analyse the situation, then it all makes sense. It just does not make him happier. The party and the poor timing of it all, they may have been Thomas's way of going out with a bang. If he knew he was going to have to disappear, he has done so splendidly. All of what surrounds Newt, they might be the ruins of a farewell party.

It would not surprise Newt, as he walks through the penthouse trying to find anything missing or out of place and glances at Minho doing the same with defiance, if that is why Thomas kissed him in the first place. Looking back, getting to that point now definitely feels rushed. It has been one song, really.

The door of the safe in the bathroom is open. Newt passes by it when he wants to go through the contents of the cabinet. If this is about money, the investigation team will have checked all the safes on the top floor. If they have not, then Newt does not feel like informing him of the small vault under the sink, either.

As soon as he is allowed to leave, he pulls on last night's suit jacket and makes sure he is out of there before anyone can change their mind.

 

* * *

 

The apartment turns out to be a zoetrope of four walls that keep playing the same scenes over and over. Newt tries a walk to clear his head, but every path instinctively leads back to the hotel. Eventually, desperate to get some distraction, he opens his books.

Homework is impossible when all he does is smile ahead of himself stupidly at inopportune moments and wonder what Thomas and Minho are doing at that moment. The thing is that it confuses him. What has happened will change the three of them, and yet Newt does not regret it. But he can't make sense of it either.

_Hey,_ he sends to Minho after ten minutes of getting his nerves under control.

It is all he says. If he says more, he risks saying too much.

Newt has no clue where Minho lives. It is probably far away, considering how long he said it took him to get home last time. Forty, fifty minutes? Newt does not really want to see him. He will ramble or end up offending the boy one way or another. At the same time Minho is the only one who might understand.

There is no response for the longest time. Newt tries to divert his attention with a coffee and a bacon omelette from the diner at the corner of the street, while he goes over his study material. He bites his nails as his eyes keep glancing at the screen. It is a nervous habit he hasn't fallen back to for a few years—at least it beats smoking. Thomas does not answer his messages either. Newt has sent him an attempt at contact on all three phone numbers he has, but none of them have been received. Because he wants to make sure he has exhausted every resource to get word out to his missing friend, he has sent an email as well.

It scares Newt that someone can stand up and leave like that. Newt cares about him—more so than expected—and although he is sure that Thomas will contact either him or Minho as soon as he can, it would help to know that Thomas is at least doing well. The wait is killing him.

When his phone alerts him, he drops everything to read.

Minho.

_Hey. Are you home?_

Newt's shoulders sag in relief. _Royal Diner now. Did you get out of the hotel?_

_Rat Man tried to have me arrested for obstruction after you left. Stay where you are?_

_Ok._

Newt can't taste the omelette or the bacon. The coffee tastes bland and bitter regardless of how many lumps of sugar he adds. He is in stasis until Minho arrives. By that time, he has drawn the attention and sympathetic looks of several people, including the girl behind the bar.

"Oh, thank goodness," Minho exclaims as soon as he enters. It is a Saturday and the place is packed. People eye him for a split second for drawing attention. He ignores them and sits down opposite Newt. "Are you okay?" he asks. "Have you heard from him?"

Newt shakes his head. "You?" 

His hopes are up until Minho crushes them. "Nothing. I'm so glad to see you here, you have no idea. Are you okay? I mean, with everything?" His gaze shifts around the room. He wants to go and take Newt with him. Minho bears the resemblance of a distressed animal. They must make quite the pair to the lady behind the counter, Newt's expression glossy as if lovestruck and Minho that much on edge.

"I lost my job," says Newt. Saying it aloud sobers him up. He ought to be online, looking for something new. He can barely make ends meet with the wage from the hotel. Every week he wastes is one in which his debt accumulates. He feels like he needs to talk to someone about that, to show that he does care and that his mind isn't only on the other event. Still, this is Minho, and Newt all too vividly recalls him lying next to him, watching Thomas and he as they made out, Minho's hand still linked with his in a solid grip that eventually shifted to brushes and near-caresses—and those are not details Newt can handle right now.

"Sorry about that," says Minho softly.

"It's not your fault."

"It is partially. We shouldn't have involved you."

Newt shakes his head. He is glad that they did. Something delicate stirs, watching the other read through the menu, and he smiles softly when Minho catches him.

They are both waiting for Thomas to fill the silence.

Minho follows Newt to his apartment later. He invites himself in without asking, and looks surprised at the little space that is available in Newt's apartment. A bed, a table and a kitchenette make up the furniture; there is a threadbare rug next to the bed to prevent direct contact with the floor on winter nights. Newt sits on the bed with his hands on his lap and his weight balanced on the edge of the bed. He allows Minho a chair that is far enough to put distance between him. Minho promptly ignores that and sits down next to him.

"So, last night…" he begins.

Newt takes in a breath and does not release it. Minho's eyes keep flicking away, like he isn't sure what to say either. He acknowledges the source of the tension though, with more straightforwardness than Newt might have managed.

"Last night," repeats Newt.

"Uh." Minho leans forward off the bed, limbs stretched in front of him. He coughs. "Yeah. About last night."

Second after second ticks away on the clock above the door.

Newt smiles, his eyes distant. "Last night was kind of nice."

His friend whips his head around. "Yeah?"

"Well. Confusing, you have to admit. But nice."

They both know what they are talking about, and they are both not comfortable continuing on it. So it must be because Minho is at a loss for something else when he does it anyway. "Confusing?"

Newt bites the inside of his cheek. "Well. Yes. You watching me and Thomas." He glances at Minho. Of course that makes it all even more stilted. What did Minho expect? "Why did you, anyway? Don't you, you know—"

Minho doesn't know.

"—like girls?" Newt fills in for him.

The result is Minho shutting down. Newt can practically see the walls he draws up to defend himself. It is all too similar to that night in the lobby. "But you liked it?" Newt quickly tries to establish, because he needs to draw Minho out as much as he needs answers.

To his relief, Minho stiffly nods. It is hesitant and barely there, but it is an answer; it is a start.

He can live with not pushing the subject right now. "So can I ask you something else?"

Obviously, it depends. A long way away from his usual self, the Minho sitting next to him is wary. It ill suits him. Newt misses the confident guy, the one could make Newt feel better with a laugh. Minho has probably ever been aware of that, sitting with his group of friends and disregarding the quiet boy occasionally stealing a glimpse from over his friend's shoulder.

"Thomas kissed someone else too, didn't he?"

Minho's eyes bore past Newt's defences this time. Whatever Newt feels for Thomas, Minho knows. "I told him not to dance with her." He looks slightly guilty. "She's nice, you know. But not with alcohol. She tried to kiss me a couple of times too. Took him by surprise, I think, because he spent shucking hours trying to arrange that suit for you. It all had to be perfect for you yesterday, see?"

"And Janson," Newt softens.

"No, actually, mostly you."

Newt blinks as that sinks in. Then he bites his lips and smiles, his face refusing to remain neutral. He can't help it; Thomas, wherever he is, has gone through an awful lot of trouble for him. It is flattering.

"You like him a lot, don't you?"

Newt slowly nods. 

What has happened that he is now confessing these things to Minho rather than to Alby, or even Chuck? His friends sent him a couple of messages to make sure he was all right in the morning. Since Newt hasn't shared that he woke up in someone else's bed at nearly ten, they must think _'I'm fine'_ is his way of saying that he is glad it's over. He is not. If he could do it again or extend the moment—not have someone forcefully waking him up and ruining the moment—then he would have..

He tries to suppress the pleasant shiver that runs through him when he recalls it—Minho, clinging onto Newt's hand as Thomas kisses him breathless; releasing him only to watch as they stumble back to the bed in the dark and crash into a pile upon the sheets. Their limbs tangle, but they do not take off their clothes. Thomas maps his neck with his lips as Newt curls his body up to the touch; Newt remembers locking eyes with Minho when Thomas tips his head to the side for better access.

It might be the weirdest and most intimate thing he has experienced, being kissed until he is ready to give it all up, while desired by an other set of eyes. Because there is no denying that part; whatever Thomas and Newt did, it fascinated Minho. Minho either wanted Newt or wanted to take his place. Regardless, Newt recalls Minho staring at them while Newt was breathless under roving hands and a warm mouth.

Minho has been the factor that changed it. Without him, Newt might have gotten Thomas out of his clothes and a lot further, if Thomas had not gotten Newt there first. But with the runner next to them, barely out of their personal space, they submitted rather to exploration.

Thomas has been his life for little over two weeks. In two weeks, he has had Newt fall head over heels and built a friendship between him and the most unlikely person to take notice. Newt stretches his legs and nudges Minho with one knee. He doesn't know why he thinks he needs to cross that distance, too.

"So now we wait."

 

* * *

 

Nothing has changed come Wednesday, except that everything has.

Thomas is still gone. He is now officially missing, and the media refuse radio silence. Newt has started keeping up to date with the press about it. To have them as his only source is frustrating, because he learns a lot that Thomas ought to gave told him in person—stuff that Newt neither needs nor wants to know—and he has no way of telling what is true and what is not.

With a natural affinity for scepticism, Newt is still astonished at the amount of facts that are drawn out of context in the articles he reads. He does not finish many of them for this reason; they treat Thomas like a spoiled brat some times, then depict him as shrewd and a fugitive who has always has a proclivity for untrustworthy behaviour the next.

By the time the media shift their focus to some crisis on the other side of the world, it leaves Newt emotionally drained.

On Tuesday, the Grand Paragon Hotel closes its doors indefinitely. Front page news. Everyone is out of a job effectively immediately. In the middle of the last week of the semester, that extra burden is dumped on a staff made up mostly of students, while the investigation into the Faraday family intensifies.

Like them, Newt feels like he is messing up half of his tests. The empty chair next to him in class continues to draw his attention and break his focus, and he is poorly prepared to make it through the week unscathed.

Alby and he study together now. Alby is out of a job just the same, which gives them a bit more time. It isn't much, but it is something, and they have to make it work. For now, life is about surviving the week. Getting a new job is a challenge left for when the dust settles.

That Friday night, Newt allows his friend to take him along on a night out. He thanks whatever entity is responsible for it when Alby instead drags him to an empty art house cinema screening something he has trouble understanding but which makes him laugh nonetheless. It is what he needs. Thomas's absence is making him feel worse, the longer it stretches on. Minho and he are back to hardly talking, the universe gradually restoring itself to its original balance. It isn't that they don't want to. It is just that Minho's friends do still intimidate Newt, and Minho does not really fit in with Newt's.

They share a secret smile when they walk past each other in the hallway. At least not everything is going back to how it was.

Newt takes a picture of Alby and him leaning back against tattered red upholstering. The holidays are upon him, which means nine blissful days of doing absolutely nothing—of stressing out over getting a new job and retakes, but at least with no homework. He sends the picture to Thomas's inbox, passing by his phone numbers after coming to terms with the fact that they will forever be out of commission. Newt misses him. He can only hope that Thomas is doing fine, that maybe he reads the messages and feels the same.

He sends the picture to Minho out of habit, too. Then he settles in the theatre chair and returns his attention to his friend.

It has been a dream. But it has been nice while it lasted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who has a lot of time to write the following two weeks? :D
> 
> Let me know if you've got any suggestions for future chapters, and thanks for your time reading this one!


	7. Rites of Passage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you might have noticed, the story summary was updated. It's not really my strong suit to keep things short and succinct, so I hope this covers the content a bit better.

The Grand Paragon Hotel stands tall and abandoned, a sentinel in the rain that beats down around it. Since a week, the lights of the neon sign above the main entrance and the one three stories below the top floor remain permanently switched off, and the hotel looks like a shadow darker than black in the night because of it. It has become a haunting ghost of past splendour.

Police lights flash against the lowest floors of the building as Newt watches from the other side of the street. Above him he keeps a black umbrella. The hotel's logo is printed on one of the sides and the handle; he was supposed to return it at some point, but it is too late for that now. Nobody takes notice of him as he stands there, at least not any more than they do of the other curious people gathered around him, all there for the same purpose.

He takes a couple of pictures of the scene on his phone and pockets the device. It doesn't matter if he is not technically supposed to take pictures. In half an hour, it will be all over the news. Shut-down hotel of fallen multinational broken into.

Newt is not interested in the news. He is here for a simple reason, hopeless as it may be. There is one person who might have called the building a home in the days before it got cordoned off. One person who had to deal with that elevator, now no longer running like the rest of the security system. What if Newt's assumptions are right?

When the police lights switch off and the activity on site dies out, the crowd loses interest and gradually disperses. Dispatched police cars are eventually replaced by two private security vans, to patrol the perimeter and guard the place for the rest of the night in order to make sure no one gets in and contaminates the scene until they can round up the investigation during day. Then there is nothing left to stay for.

Newt remains on the pavement a while longer, a lone figure hiding under his umbrella, silhouetted by street light, before at last he too gives up.

He sends one of the pictures to Minho for the sake of lost times and the common denominator linking them. After a moment of thought, wrestling with the phone while he clings the umbrella between chin and shoulder, he adds, _Someone broke in tonight. No idea who did it._

It is past one, and Newt does not expect an answer. He starts walking away from the building. At the corner of the street, he stops and turns for the last time. Whether out of hope or out of habit he doesn't know, but he freezes as soon as he sees it. There, somewhere two-third of the way up, flickers a light.

It happens briefly. Had Newt blinked, he would have missed it, but he is too sure of what he saw to dismiss it as a trick of the eye. It flickers again. His heart is suddenly beating in his throat. Nailed to the spot, he needs to do something before someone else takes note. Before any of the authorities do.

He retrieves his phone from his pocket, moving his fingers against the screen lightning fast. _If you're in there,_ he emails Thomas on a whim, _I can see you. So may others._

The light flashes once again. Newt waits for the next occurrence for so long that he starts feeling numb. His lips are dry, his entire being light-headed. Is it possible? Is it just a coincidence, or is it really…? 

_Please flash your light once if you just read that,_ he tries. Newt watches the floor where he first saw it with baited breath. He needs to be sure. A minute passes, then two. At five, his frame releases its tension and he nearly slumps to the floor.

Someone is in there, that is certain. He does not know who, but he knows it is not the person he wants it to be. Probably someone checking for valuables in the former palace of kings, or maybe a group of squatters. either way, it is not important.

He will wait for the the newspaper to tell him more in the morning.

Newt returns home disappointed.

 

* * *

 

At five o'clock, Minho replies.

Newt groans as he unlocks his phone and reads the message, his brittle plans to sleep in for as many of his free days as he can manage already crumbling.

_You were at the hotel?_

Newt rolls his eyes. Obviously, he couldn't have taken that picture from his apartment. The hotel isn't visible from any of his two windows. _Got a notification, couldn't sleep. Figured I'd check it out,_ he replies. _Someone was up there when I was outside._

_The news says not._

_The news should shut up if it doesn't know what it's talking about._ Perhaps part of that message reflects Newt's frustration with the local media and how it has treated Thomas's disappearance in the days that followed. He doesn't care. _Probably wasn't him,_ he adds so Minho does not have to ask. His sleep-addled brain is still able to register Minho having checked the news before texting back. _You're up awfully early, by the way._

_Yeah. Practice in thirty. You're up too._

_Some shank woke me._

_What an asshole._

Newt laughs. He rolls onto his side and glances at the alarm clock. It is a rare day on which his alarm is not set, and he thinks he might be able to catch some more sleep if he doesn't wait too long. But he misses Minho, so the choice isn't hard.

_I'll keep you up to date if I find out more, okay?_ he offers.

_Sure._

Despite Newt's intentions, the conversation bleeds out just like that. There is nothing for him to say. Grasping for words, Newt can only think of silly things, things that are designed to keep them talking rather than ensure a quality conversation.

_Gotta go,_ types Minho. _Go back to bed?_

_Haven't left it._ Before his rational mind can wake and stop the urge for casual banter, he takes a picture of himself hidden under sheets and sends it.

As the photo transfers, he is reminded of some pictures sent what feels like ages ago, and scrolls up to find the one in which Minho was trying to talk him out of the bathroom. The image of Thomas leaning back against his friend to fit both of them into the frame, both dressed in suits and looking unimaginably good, is enough to constrict Newt's throat. He wishes he could go back to that. Things were easier before Thomas left.

Further up in the log is the one where Thomas pretends to dress back up—and then the one where is in the first stage of undress, the one that was meant to persuade Newt to come over. It is a breathtaking picture, it still is. But Newt keeps going back to the ones that have him and Minho in it. 

_I'm thinking of watching that show you recommended,_ he messages Minho when the feeling of loss becomes too much. _I don't own a TV though. Any ideas?_

He waits, on the brink of sleep, until Minho sends a picture of a street sign and captions, _Number 9. Back around 8. Sleep tight._

Newt closes his eyes. "Night, Minho," he mumbles into the emptiness of his apartment, and drifts off.

 

* * *

 

Minho's apartment is three times the size of Newt's. It makes him feel small and aware of the mediocrity of his own room as he lets his eyes take in the sheer size of the living room that Minho shares with three others, and then again when he sees what occupies the space. A massive couch with three corners and space for at least seven people occupies the corner of the living room. On the wall is a large TV; under it he finds three stationed game consoles. There are no plants in the living room, so nobody has to keep up with them—which reminds Newt that it is still a student flat—but other than that, the space is remarkably clean.

"You live here?" he stammers. The place is huge.

"Yeah." Minho replies, part proud and part self-aware. "Share it, actually. Ben used to work at the hotel too, so maybe you know him. Then there's Brenda. She has the biggest bedroom. And Gally. They're cool. I'll introduce you when they're up."

For Newt, to whom having to factor in three other people is unanticipated and all at once frightening, it is enough to jam shut. His mind goes over the available excuses. He can still go while none of them have seen him here. Ben is okay, but Gally can't possibly be okay with having Newt in the house; he is known for being easy to ignite, and he isn't fond of a lot of people. Newt fits the stereotype.

And Brenda changes Minho into an ass in front of Newt.

"Dude, you're hyperventilating," Minho says. "Did I say something wrong?"

"Gally?!" Newt all but hisses. He keeps his voice as low as he can. "The guy is going to hate me, if he doesn't already."

"No, he won't."

"Yeah? Have you asked him?"

Minho's mood turns sour. "I thought you were here to watch TV." Which, he is unaware, is not exactly true. The television has been another excuse. "Look, you're here as my friend. If anyone is has a problem with that, they take it up with me." He squints and offers a tentative smile. "I've got a TV in my room too, if it makes you feel better."

It does make Newt feel better. He can't help but think that the whole thing is going to go horribly wrong, and he is scared of seeing that side of Minho that came out in front of Brenda. "Sorry," he says. "I'll try to be nice."

Minho grins and leans in. "But don't try too hard. Coffee?"

"Please."

The kitchen area is small and functional. Easy to clean with very few things outside the cabinets, Newt notices a roster with a killer cleaning schedule stuck on the fridge. He takes a seat at the table next to it and watches as Minho moves about.

If someone had told him a month ago that the captain of the running team would make him coffee, he would have reconsidered his friend's sanity. But Minho takes his job seriously, putting a new filter in the machine before filling it up with the correct amount of Arabica—actual brand coffee, not a hip novelty bag purchased at Starbucks for the hell of it—and grabbing two mismatching mugs from the cupboard.

"Are you making coffee?" A girl's voice calls from the hallway. "Make more!"

Newt is not ready for that, not so soon. Like a deer caught in headlights as soon as the third person joins them in the kitchen, his eyes stare at Brenda, who stares back equally surprised. "Uh," she blinks. "Minho?"

"Brenda, Newt," smiles Minho. "Newt, Brenda."

"I know who he is," she says. Not why he is here, at her kitchen table.

"…It's nice to meet you?" Newt tries.

Minho snorts. "Told you not to try."

She pulls a face and sits opposite Newt. For a long time, she just watches. Her smile grows bigger, the longer Newt squirms under her scrutiny. Then she declares, "Nice to meet you, Newt. Ignore this jerk, he has no manners whatsoever. Believe me, I've tried since the day he moved in. You're Thomas's friend, right?"

"Er."

"Boyfriend?" she asks without shame.

Newt falters. He has expected derisory remarks or stabs below the belt. But Brenda is a force of nature that apparently enjoys making people feel uncomfortable as some sort of merciless rite of passage. "I don't know," he responds. He doesn't bother denying that he's gay. Brenda looks like she can see straight through him, anyway.

"Brenda," Minho warns.

"What? It's cute, isn't it? I mean, apart from Thomas being gone, obviously. His party was nice. Sorry, sorry— _your_ party." She turns to Newt, offering comfort. "He looked like he was into you, if it helps."

"Shit, Brenda."

She is about to shrug at Minho when she sees what her words have done for Newt and shuts up. It doesn't help, that is the problem. Newt misses him too much. He thought he was fine, but the world seems bent on reminding him time and again. And Brenda, though she obviously and unexpectedly means well, has struck the wrong note. The what if.

Newt scrapes his throat, and is suddenly grateful for the coffee. It gives him something to focus on. Their hands touch when Minho passes him a cup. Newt cringes when he registers that Minho's previous energy has wilted. His actions appear stilted as he sits down next to Brenda. Neither of them speaks while they wait for the coffee to cool down, the silence too loaded to be broken. At long last Brenda gets up with her cup, mutters something about checking her Facebook, and leaves them to the painful tension.

Newt nudges Minho's foot for attention. Minho pulls it back quickly, and Newt bites at the corner of a nail, reverting his eyes back to the cup. "Sorry." He waits while his friend refuses to make eye contact. They continue evading each other, opposite each other, until Newt has had enough. "Want to watch TV in the living room?"

His friend ticks his spoon against the inside of his mug, listening as it changes in pitch. "Bedroom is fine too."

"Does your bedroom have something better than that couch?"

When Minho again acknowledges Newt, he is uncertain but he is also raising his brow, his eyes no longer that absent. "Far better. But not for watching. The living room sounds good."

Newt can't quite put his finger on Minho. He becomes sullen easily, with very specific subjects, but he cheers up fast. Newt does not know how to handle Minho when he doesn't talk. It reminds him of how little they truly have in common; how much effort it sometimes takes to gain his attention. Then when Minho does talk, Newt feels like he is the only person in the world that matters. It is a continuous struggle—one that is worth it for the simple fact that Minho's smile sends alight Newt's with the infallibility of a mathematical equation.

They end up settling on the couch in each their own corner, curled up to continue that which they started on in the penthouse. The size of the couch puts two metres of space between them. It is too much for Newt, who negates it half an episode in by throwing one of the pillows in his corner over. He grins at the undignified squawk that erupts from his friend. It is like coffee hasn't happened. Minho throws the thing back with enough force to catch Newt square in the face and send him into a fit of laughter.

The television plays a scene he should undoubtedly not miss, but Newt curls instead to face Minho. He is again biting his nails, his eyes alive. "Do you still think about it?" he wonders.

Minho turns to face him. "About what?"

"You know what." Socked feet shift a pillow further in Minho's direction. It will not reach him unless he puts in more effort. Newt watches his friend. "I do. I think about it."

"Well, of course you do." Dark clouds appear behind Minho's eyes. 

Like clockwork. Newt thinks he has it figured out. "Because of Thomas?"

Minho shrugs. He is back to bordering on unresponsive. "Obviously. Look, can we just—"

"—Thomas wasn't the only one there," Newt interjects. By now he knows he will have to watch the episode again if he ever hopes to keep up with the story. Today is not that day. "I mean, I like him. Obviously." Newt hands Minho's single word back to him on a platter. "But I had two dates that night, had I not?"

A fleeting glimpse of confusion crosses the other. "…I was joking about that," he says.

"Were you?"

Minho stares at him. After several seconds, Newt still can not tear his gaze away. He knows he is treading into uncharted territory as he presses the issue, but Minho is neither moody nor spirited, locking both of them in inaction. "You don't have to still think about it," he says. "I just wondered if you were."

"Why?"

Newt shrugs, smiles around his nail. "I don't know. I guess I like that you might be."

He forces himself daily not to jump to conclusions. Minho says he is straight. Although watching two guys make out is admittedly not the most heterosexual thing to do, Newt can not be certain that he should draw any conclusions from that. "I'm really making you uncomfortable, aren't I?" he sighs. "Can you rewind a bit? I'll be good, I promise."

"…What was it like?"

Newt blinks. "That which happened?" He does not want to commit what has happened to words, if he considers Minho's roommates present in the same house. They both know what they are talking about, after all, and there's no need to make things awkward. But Minho no longer avoiding the subject sets something aflame. "Er. Really good, I suppose? I'm not sure which part you mean, so I'm just going to be blunt. I think I liked everything except the part after I woke up."

"Me being weird?"

Newt chuckles. He has never had the pleasure of seeing Minho insecure. It is incredibly endearing. "Really good." He hesitates then, because he won't be able to take back what he wants to say. He takes a breath, then says it anyway. "Pity you're straight."

It knocks the wind straight out of Minho. He must have expected Newt to try and make him feel better about his odd behaviour; to say that it did not matter and that no harm was done. Newt does not know what exactly Minho wanted to hear, but it is probably not this.

"You like Thomas," Minho almost accuses.

"Yes, I do." Newt waits for Minho to make his point.

"But…"

Newt smiles softly. Minho ought to have taken these things into consideration before sending him pictures to remind him which two men he was with; before being so casual with his words. He has no clue of half the things he has put into action. "It's not important."

Opposite him, cornered and flustered, Minho shakes his head. "Yes, it is."

That draws a groan from Newt. "No, it really isn't."

"Newt." Minho's eyes are hard, his voice uncharacteristically demanding. "You wanted to talk about it. Don't you dare do this to me now."

It is that which flares up Newt's frustration. He shouldn't have brought up the topic. Now here they are, in a living room with three people potentially an audience, and he is about to say something hurtful just to lash out and get Minho back on the defence. "I would have, you know," he whispers hoarsely, oh so quietly, wanting to take back every word as soon as it tumbles from his lips. "You shouldn't have been there, but you were, watching me like that. God, Minho, can you really believe I'd let you stay if I didn't want you there?"

He waits for the first signs of Minho crawling away from the situation. Newt holds his breath, counts to ten. "I should go," he offers. His voice feels as raw as it sounds tattered, but he still manages to say it with delicacy. If he goes, the contact between them will likely break. There will be no more smiles in the corridor, no text messages rife with subtext. "Do you want me to go?"

Minho's fingers toy with an imaginary fold on his jeans. He breathes out. "No."

"Do you want to continue watching TV?"

Another shake of his head.

"Go for a walk?" opts Newt gently.

"Bedroom," says Minho.

And well, that is certainly unexpected.

 

* * *

 

Newt feels thoroughly undone, sitting on the pillow with his legs tucked under him. He takes note of the natural dim of the room, of the single bed that is thankfully ordinary. The room is not much bigger than Newt's, although Newt's incorporates a kitchen and a living room. As opposed to the rest of the apartment, it is also awfully messy. Books are piled on the desk near the window, clothes hung over the chair. Somewhere during the last week, a sweater has dropped to the ground and not been picked up since. Newt remembers Minho wearing it.

"Are you sure about this?" he asks again.

"Not really," smiles Minho nervously. He sits on the bed in front of Newt, still on a safe enough distance not to threaten his space. But he is asking him to. "Are you?"

It is the stress that makes Newt shake his head reflexively. When he has the time to consider the situation, it turns into an unsure nod. "I want to. I suppose I do not want to mess things up."

"Do you think—" Minho starts. He is equally breathless, although they both haven't done a thing since they got here, which has been ten minutes ago. "What if he comes back?"

"I'd still want to." At least Newt is certain about that one thing. He touches Minho's knee, and Minho jolts whereas Newt swallows. "Close your eyes?" he asks.

He has never been someone's I-want-to-try-this before. If anyone were to ask him, he would probably decline and thank for the honour. Newt has always considered curious people not to be very sure. Which means that trying out a kiss is not something one would do with someone that mattered, lest things are broken in the outcome. It's just not safe.

Newt makes an exception for the boy who has already shared a bed with him, who now waits for him with his eyes closed in such a display of trust that Newt can not possibly imagine not wanting this. He straightens his spine and wishes he could talk some more courage into himself, then slowly leans forward and into Minho's reach.

The boy's eyes open, if only a bit. Newt smiles at him, his own eyes half shut. At this point, his insides are a sore mess.

It is then, at that poorest of timings, that his phone buzzes. Newt screws his eyes shut. He wills the device to shut up, the caller to cease calling. Neither of them say a thing, but the longer it stretches on, the more damage it does. The moment is thoroughly ruined by the time it stops. Newt leans his head against Minho's shoulder, mortified. "I am so fucking sorry."

To his surprise, Minho laughs. It starts as a small shake, one of which Newt thinks it is going to end in an emotional discharge of everything that has been pent up, but soon he is chuckling under his breath, until he falls back on the bed and laughs—Newt has to fumble not to end up with his head in inappropriate regions. "That's—wow. Wow."

It is so ridiculous that Newt soon joins in Minho's infective laughter. "I owe you one," Newt promises.

"Good that," grins Minho. "Romantic."

"Shut up."

Minho rolls onto his side and watches Newt. "So?" he prompts. "Are you going to call back and guilt-trip the hell out of whoever decided to ruin that?"

"Whoever it is does not deserve the effort."

"Right on."

Minho's phone then signals an incoming email. He frowns and reaches over to the night stand, passing by Newt, who has to hold himself back from reaching out and brushing his hand. Minho flops down on the bed and against him, not struggling with the same propriety, as he opens the message, then nearly drops it.

It is a picture of the penthouse.

No caption. Nothing. Just that.

"Call back the number," Minho orders Newt, who is still trying to catch a glimpse of what has shifted Minho's mood to deadly serious in the beat of a second. When the phone falls on the bed and shows an image bearing a timestamp going back less than half an hour, he understands. "Call it now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of stuff happening! Thanks, everyone, for sticking with this story so long. I'm going to try and have the next chapter ready for Christmas Eve as a little gift from me to you. Again, thanks for reading <3


	8. Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, a chapter before Christmas Eve. Hang in there, I've been busy and I've got the next one lined up for tomorrow already. 
> 
> Whatever you're celebrating (be that a holiday or simply having a good time), I wish you all a great evening <3 Cheers!

"I can't believe we're doing this," whispers Newt under his breath. He is tired and thoroughly done with steps for the rest of his life after the seventh flight, the concrete under his feet hard and unforgiving. But he's not sorry that he's here.

His leg has started acting up at the fourth floor of the Grand Paragon Hotel. By now, he worries whether he will still be able to make the way back. He has never taken this many stairs in one go, so there is no way he could have known, but he might have considered the possibility. "If anyone finds us here, we're in big trouble," he says, not for the first time. 

The lights in the hotel are out. They aren't using flashlights for the simple reason that it would give them away. The place where Newt used to work may be closed for business, but it is not left alone—and it is not empty. The knowledge of that adds an eerie edge to every sound they hear in the dark wrapping around them at 11 PM.

"Do you need a rest?" asks Minho in that same hushed timbre. "I can scout ahead."

"How can you not be tired?"

Minho flashes him a grin in the dark. "It's called stamina, and you get it from doing sports."

"Overrated," huffs Newt as he sits down on one of the steps, his weight against the wall. On the other side of it is the maintenance elevator. If they could have powered the building back up and used that elevator, they would have been done by now. But doing so involves attracting unwanted attention and a whole lot of risk that Newt can't allow himself to take, which is why they have been stuck to the emergency stairs for over half an hour now. Both below and above them, the stairs disappear into a black hole. The place makes both of them feel ill at ease, cut from power and without the usual bustle of guests.

Newt sits so still that when he talks, it startles the other. "So there are supposed to be a couple of guards on the fourteenth, right? And then those that patrol across several floors. No exact number." He sticks out his injured leg in the dark. "I'm a serious liability, Min. If they catch on to us, they'll get me." He should have thought of that before—or at least not been so focused on the other matter at hand.

Minho crouches in front of him. "No, they won't. We've got fourteen floors to go, but we have all night to get there."

"Unless one of them realises we've been locking them out with bloody cable ties. I doubt they'll stick to one floor all night."

"Hey." Minho pulls him out of his increasing pessimism. "We take a rest now, and you let me handle the top floors when we get to that. All you worry about is making sure you can be out of here fast enough if one of them sees us. All right?"

For a moment, Newt has the urge to and kiss him. It's the way he talks that does it. The kiss promised between them is long overdue, but now is not the time to be breaking Minho's concentration, for Newt depends on him to get them out.

Furthermore, now there is Thomas. The flashlight in the window, that night Newt was outside; alive and well. Thomas, who could have called or sent a text. Whatever madness possessed him to break into the hotel with half the world searching for him, it has not gone unpunished, for he's been stuck on the top floor for all of two days, the emergency stairs jammed from the outside. Newt will have a good talk with him for shutting them out when they make it through tonight. For now, getting him out safely is their first priority.

So Newt doesn't kiss Minho. If they get Thomas back, Newt wonders if he ever will.

"I'm going to close up until eleven," promises Minho. "Remember; one, five and ten. If they come, and you can't—"

"—I'll make it to the other stairs through there," promises Newt. He knows the layout of every floor, of every room and of the staff quarters. He also hopes he does not have to rely on that knowledge tonight.

Up the shaft, he listens to the echo of Minho's footsteps. The boy is on bare feet to mute his steps. Agile and disturbingly in his element breaking and entering the most expensive building in the city, Newt has to admit that he's impressed. He wonders if Minho has experience with capture-the-flag games, paintball and the sort. He moves like he does.

He gets up and follows him at his own pace. Every emergency exit he passes, he adds an extra cable tie, just in case.

They make it up to thirteen—the fourteen; Newt has always thought leaving out the thirteenth floor in a public building to be ridiculous, but he is glad for the missing floor now—when they proceed with more caution. The following five steps are covered in twenty minutes. It is taking too long by far, and securing their escape plan is becoming a liability when they ought to be focusing their attention on the door connecting to the penthouse.

Behind the door to the fifteenth floor, Newt hears footsteps. It doesn't hit him until then just how terrified this renders him. Whoever is responsible for the added surveillance, it is not all that official. He hasn't spotted any vans outside, and to be honest, the fact that they keep the lights off is a dead giveaway.

He grabs Minho's arm and holds a finger before his lips. Because he can barely see him and he can't tell if the signal is lost in the dark, he subsequently presses his hand over Minho's mouth, or a rough estimation of the location thereof.

They remain frozen until the footsteps fade into distance once again. Newt wastes no time slipping a plastic lock around the handle. He winces when the tightening rasp bounces off the shaft's walls, pausing to ensure that he doesn't accidentally confirm unusual activity with a second sound to whomever else listening.

When they check off the seventeenth with a surge of adrenaline that has now tethered Newt to a constant influx of stress, he idly wonders why there has never been a staircase between the penthouse and the floor directly underneath. Sure, there are the emergency stairs they are using right now, and usually the elevator. He means a proper one, broad and made of marble, and carpeted with red velvet. One that could have given Thomas an other way out—or the guards an easier way in. Do they know that Thomas is there? Has he been hiding, keeping quiet, while they patrol the lower floors?

At eighteen, someone rattles the fourteenth door. A sound unwittingly escapes Minho. "Shit," he whispers when it rattles again, and then he bounds up the remaining flights, making haste to lock every door he passes with further disregard for keeping quiet.

Their cover is blown, which means there is only one way out. They need to be fast.

"Go!" Minho calls to Newt. "Rendez-vous at yours!"

"Mi—"

"—Don't! No names! Just go!"

If the circumstances were different, Newt would have laughed at the spy reference. It feels horribly out of place, too professional for two students having decided to break into a closed building. But with the possibility of being captured seventeen floors away from safety and knowing that his leg is about to slow him down, Newt has no other choice. He turns and runs in the opposite direction as fast as he can.

It stings when he forces it. By now, the door on sixteenth floor is also rattling. Newt nearly cries when he runs past the door, the tension jammed high in his throat and his head spinning. In a moment of clarity, he recognises it for what it is. Fight-or-flight—that which sets the predator apart from the prey. His adrenaline rushes through his veins, numbing the pain in his leg, as he pushes himself past his breaking point and continues to go. There is no mistake about it; Newt is the prey, and the guards are doing what they can to break the obstruction separating them with the intent of tearing him apart.

From above him comes a crash. A shower of glass shards fall down and passes him by, their surfaces reflecting what little light is available to them. 

Newt keeps running. He stumbles the last steps of the ninth. His knees hit the floor and he actually cries out this time. He can not stop. The door that leads into the tenth is still open. In his hurry, he has forgotten to close it off on the way down like planned. If one of the guards find out, both he and Minho are done for.

With a wince behind every step, Newt forces himself back up one floor. He could keep running, if the risk wasn't too big. And he is soon glad that he did, for a second after he secures the door, a body collides against it on the other side. The shock forces him back against the other wall. He breathes hard.

Above him, a door opens. Newt's eyes widen, his pupils narrow. One of the guards must have gotten through. They are faster than him, and he has a long way to go. He—

"Got him!" calls Minho. "Go!"

The strain tears a raw laugh from Newt's throat. He no longer has the energy to call back, so he nods in Minho's direction and continues. He can't let this fail. He is not going to be the one they catch only because of something stupid like a having a limp. The guards move faster than expected if they have already caught up with him on the other side of the tenth door, but they will not be able to get to the emergency stairs if Newt closes the door on the fifth in time.

it has been the trickiest part of the plan, making sure the guards won't catch them as soon as they exit the building. Shutting off all exits from the hotel except the one from the emergency exit was Newt's idea, like the cable ties have been. He hopes it works. There is a big liability in that plan; it works only if the guards do not simply break through the reinforced glass door at the front. It would draw attention to any activity in the hotel, and Newt is pretty sure that it is not something they want. But he can be wrong.

He keeps running until he reaches the fifth floor. Above him on the upper floors is a range of activity. Newt takes out another cable tie.

As soon as he wraps it around the handle, the door opens.

For a moment, he fumbles with the grasp. Through the crack he is suddenly face to face with a towering man with a vicious laugh. 'Reyes', says the logo on his chest. Newt stares wide-eyed, before throwing all of his weight into pulling back the door. He will never win this if it becomes a tug of war, he knows as he frantically pulls on the door with all his might. He needs something else.

The door opens all the way when he lets go. Newt fumbles with the cannister hooked to his belt. He has one coat with a lot of useful pockets, but as the coat itself is too cumbersome to be practical for a mission like this, he thanks Minho's idea of stopping by a few stores for a tool belt and some basic necessities. He holds the pepper spray in front of himself while he stumbles back with one eye screwed shut, and sprays as much as he can into the guard's eyes.

The man roars in pain. Newt stares at him, like he can't believe he just did that. Then he uses his leg to topple him back in. 

It is his bad leg, and it sends a flare of pain up his spine. Newt's hands shakily secure the last of the cable ties. Then he leans his weight against the door, pushes his forehead against the metal that separates him from danger, and he exhales. As someone hammers against the door on the other side, the tremors continue into his limbs.

"Yeah?" he laughs humourlessly, exhausted. "Sucks, doesn't it?"

There is not enough strength in him to use both legs during the final descent. Newt leans his weight on the railing as he skips the steps on one foot. The pain is excruciating at every step. He bites his lip and draws blood on the final flight, which is somehow almost insurmountably difficult.

Then he is outside, stumbling to the ground. There is no way for him to continue. Only one time has his leg been this bad, and that was right after his accident. Coming here and insisting that he be part of the plan has been a monumentally bad idea.

 

* * *

 

Whatever route Minho picked, Newt does not see him from the back seat of the taxi. Normally too expensive, tonight the fee does not add up to the pain in his limb, and the taxi driver has been mercifully quiet after Newt shot down his first attempt at conversation.

Getting up to his apartment is worse.

He sits on his bed with a bag of ice pressed against his leg. A numbness creeps into his limb. Newt can't do the same for the pinpricks that still rack his central nervous system after the abuse he has put his body through. Stars still swim in his vision.

When the doorbell rings, opening the from door and setting the one of his apartment slightly ajar is the last effort Newt makes, before he promptly decides he is not moving another muscle that night.

But the pain is forgotten when the door opens, and Minho drags in Thomas.

Thomas looks bad. That is the first thing Newt notices. His skin is sallow, his greasy hair pressed to his scalp. He carries no smile on his lips. The frustration of not having heard from him in ten days is no longer relevant when Thomas practically crumples as soon as he is on the bed. Newt pulls his good leg back to give him space.

"You look like shit," is the first thing he says. Not the first thing he has imagined himself saying, and Minho throws him a look. Newt returns it with a quirk of his brow. "Well? Get him something to eat." 

Newt's hand brushes the dirty hair from Thomas's face with concern, as Minho awkwardly familiarises himself with the kitchen. It is all somewhat surreal. Newt feels a distance between the memory and him, like he has seen it happen but he hasn't really been there. Like it hasn't been him. And then there is the fact that on his bed lies the form of a wanted man. "There is bread in the left cupboard," he absently tries to help Minho out. He cannot turn away from Thomas, even if his leg demands a different position. There are a million questions he wants answers to, and for which now is not the time.

"Got it," nods Minho. He raids the fridge for something to drink, and only comes up with cooled water. "You haven't got anything else?" he asks. "Something with carbs? Sugar? He needs energy."

Newt winces and shakes his head. They have thought about tool belts and pepper spray, but not about food. "Rice? There's fish sticks in the freezing compartment. Er. Canned beans?"

"…That'll do."

Newt shifts his leg with trouble. His eyes are still on Thomas, who has closed now his eyes and breathes slowly, while Minho prepares a meal. Thomas hasn't said a word to either of them since his return. He is different from the warm, cocky person Newt got to know, and a world apart from the man who kissed him.

Two painkillers relieve the throbbing of his leg and spine and invoke a pleasant mellow. Newt curls himself into the corner. He pulls his pillow up and watches the tension drain from Minho's frame while busying himself with getting Thomas something decent to eat after two days of being locked in the tower. It coaxes out a sleepy smile. They have done the impossible.

By the time Minho is done and Thomas is sitting up to regain some of his strength, Newt has already succumbed to his fatigue.

 

* * *

 

Light breaks through the crack between the curtains to paint a line of solid gold along the kitchen and across the foot end of the sheets.

The bed is empty when Newt stirs, his legs stretching under him and making contact with nothing. For a while that is okay, but then he recalls the night before and the insanity of breaking into the Grand Paragon Hotel on a rescue mission; he recalls the close shaves, and he recalls Thomas.

A quick inspection of the room tells him that rendez-vous has ended, for he is again alone.

_You two okay?_ he sends to Minho from his bed. On the stove is a frying pan with encrusted fish and beans. The combination, and knowing that someone ate it, is enough to nearly make him gag.

Minho replies with a picture of Thomas huddled in his bed. He looks frail and he's still dirty. His frame is small under the warm sheets that wrap around him. _He's asleep. He'll be fine. How is your leg?_

The reminder brings back the pain. _Not as bad as yesterday,_ Newt replies. _A few days of rest should do it._

_Shouldn't have brought you._

Despite the truth in there, the words sting. _Probably not. But I'm glad I did. Saved you a couple of times there, I think. One of them nearly got in._ Nearly caught him, too. Newt rather doesn't want to worry Minho pointlessly. _What about you? How are you?_

_Well enough._ Newt imagines Minho smiling when he types it. _Brenda asks if you're coming over, since your boyfriend is here._

_Boyfriend?_ asks Newt. It is one of those things he is supposed to know instead of ask, but with Thomas all bets are off. And Minho knows as much as he does.

_Her words, not mine,_ Minho defends himself. _Are you?_

The boyfriend, or is he coming over? As Newt contemplates that, he can tell for sure that the second option is out of the question. _Can't come over. You're too far on crutches. I might make it there, but I'll never make it back. Maybe Thursday or Friday?_

Newt thinks about all the things he still has to do. He needs to shop for groceries—obviously that one can't be avoided, because he suspects he now has literally only rice and bread left in his cupboards. Then probably clean. His place is turning into a right sty.

First on his list however is a good shower. It might soothe his bad leg, true, but the most important thing is that he dirt and grime of last night's effort still stick to his skin as a constant reminder of what they have done. Newt is both proud of what they have accomplished and ashamed of himself for the amount of risk they took. He yearns to rinse off the reminder of the latter.

His phone draws him back to the present. _Or you can come over and stay,_ says Minho. _Brenda doesn't mind picking you up._

Newt instinctively declines. It is a nice offer, but it isn't practical for him to sleep on a couch. And he has his medicine here. It is better if he stays.

Two hours later, the list of pros and cons also contains still having no food and no distraction from the tremors in his tired leg that are starting to drive him insane. No Thomas here, and no answers. No Minho either.

So if he has to swallow his pride to plead, _Please get me out of here as soon as you can,_ then that's just something he does.


	9. Navigation by Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, something nice for today as well :) Enjoy!

Somewhere down the road, Brenda stops being intimidating.

It's not really a conscious realisation, nor does it hit Newt with the force of a sledgehammer. It is just disappearing, diminishing the longer she talks to him, until at one point she says something offhanded during her taxi from Newt's to Minho's and makes him laugh, and it is no longer there.

Newt still doesn't consider himself an interesting person; he is still sharp of tongue before he acts nice. Brenda does not seem to mind it. Something has been set in motion when Thomas decided to disrupt Newt's awfully studious life, and it has continued its course with him gone. Minho sends him messages and talks to him in public these days—takes him along on questionable field trips—and now there's Brenda.

He feels almost guilty that he ought to be spending more time with Alby, and that he should also probably check up on Chuck. They have been out of touch since the day the hotel closed. Newt misses the cheery comments. If anything, he should tell them about Thomas, or that his leg his acting up. He might not tell them about the hotel, because Chuck can't keep a secret even if his life depended on it, but it feels wrong not to give them anything.

He hops into the elevator with the support of his crutches, then passes the honour to Brenda to bring them up to the tenth. When the key turns in the lock, though, he suddenly wants to press pause. Newt needs more time. He's not ready for this.

Unaware of that, Brenda leans in. "Your boyfriend stays in Minho's room," she says with a knowing grin. "You can stay in mine, or you can stay on the couch. Either way is fine." She shrugs. "But off the record, I recommend mine. I'm staying over at a friend's for the rest of the week, so it's cool. You think the couch might not be that bad. Wait until Gally starts coming home at impossible hours because of that job of his. If you're a light sleeper, trust me, you don't want the couch."

"He's not—"

Brenda grins. "Not your boyfriend? Whatever. Just use Minho's bed and not mine if you want to, you know," she purposely inclines her head once, "study." Despite her effort to appear embarrassed by the very notion, her eyes are alive with entertainment; she takes obvious pleasure in messing with the new kid. "Now go, Romeo, or your breakfast is gonna get cold."

"Minho made breakfast?" The memory of last night's fish sticks and beans draws out an involuntary shudder.

She swats him on the shoulder. "It's not that bad. He makes decent omelettes."

"If that's how you feel." Newt rolls his eyes in response.

She snorts and delivers him to the kitchen. When Newt turns to ask her if it's okay for him to drop off his bag in her room, Brenda has already vanished, leaving Minho and him alone in the kitchen. Newt awkwardly shoves his hands in his jeans. "Hi."

Minho glances at him, before turning his attention back to the omelette. "Hey."

"So. I guess we're still both in one piece."

Minho nods in return as he pushes the egg mixture around. "Yeah."

Newt's heart sinks. Just like that, all they have done to get Thomas out and then that other moment have been forgotten, bringing them back to this deadlock. Not wanting to impede on the silence, Newt takes care not to scrape the legs on the tiled floor when he sits down on one of the kitchen's canary yellow chairs, which must have been either Brenda's touch or a bargain at the shop.

Minho moves from the stove to a chopping board with mushrooms and scallions. To be fair, it looks like he is putting an effort into it, and it smells amazing.

"Is it okay if I put my leg on the other chair?" Newt tries in an attempt to get a conversation going. 

Minho turns momentarily and nods. He smiles, or rather his mouth does. But his eyes remain emotionless, and his frame is rigid like a string ready to snap.

At long last, Newt is done with the tension. "I'm going to check up on Thomas," he says. He waits for Minho to say something, or to otherwise give him a response. Because Newt understands what is happening. Thomas is back, and while he used to be the glue that kept them together before, he is now the one that divides them. He pushes the chair back with an intently grating noise and makes sure his crutches are audible against the floor. "Well?"

That draws Minho from his stupor. "Well, what?"

"Aren't you going to say anything?"

"I—" Newt almost feels sorry when Minho suddenly looks so lost. But then the boy mumbles, "Sure. Tell him food's almost ready," and Newt loses all sympathy. He is off before Minho can either object or get an other word in.

 

* * *

 

It takes one look at Thomas, who is upright in Minho's bed with his eyes on Newt when the door opens, before tears spring into Newt's eyes. Whether they are born from his frustration over Minho or relief for Thomas's return, Newt wipes them away. "Hi," he breathes. "Can I come in?"

Thomas has lost his voice. He sits back to make room for Newt. His lips are chapped and his eyes bewildered, but he is clean again, and Newt can't take his eyes off him as he manoeuvres himself into a comfortable enough position on the sheets.

"Did you fight?" Thomas asks. His voice is raw and clipped. Although Newt wishes his first words would have carried different content, being able to listen to him talk makes him feel like he is floating.

"Sorry you heard that."

"Is it because of me?"

Newt shrugs. "In a way, I guess. I didn't think I'd see you again, you know. You didn't answer any of my messages. You had me worried." It isn't his intention to make Thomas feel bad about himself, although he can't stop it. The words come out without his consent. "You worried Minho too. When we woke up, you were just gone. Then they told us you were a fugitive. I didn't know what to think. The articles were awful, you know. It's just, it's been a bad couple of weeks for both of us. But you're here now."

Thomas opens his mouth and closes it. "Sorry," he finally says, with an honesty that betrays that the idea of his friends worrying about him only dawns on him now. "It's—shuck, can we do this later?"

Newt nods. "Minho is making breakfast. It's not as horrible as what he made you last night, I promise," he tries for lightness. Thomas still has that hold on him that makes him want to close the distance, although the other looks strangely disconnected in Minho's bed, out of his usual confidence. Another time. "I should probably go and apologise. I was sort of pushing him." In truth, Newt just wants Thomas to bring them back together to like they used to be. "Give me a minute?"

"Yeah," Thomas nods. "Sure." He rubs his eyes, takes in the room and then his awfully oversized t-shirt with a hip print that says absolutely nothing— _New York Mechanical Engineering, since 1959_ —and sports slacks. Newt thinks that when he wore Thomas's clothes, he must have looked equally out of sorts. Probably not as adorable; the lack of coordination suits Thomas. "Can you, uh, tell me where the bathroom is?"

Newt walks him down the hall. Just as the door closes, another one opens up. The other roommate blinks at him.

Gally stares, and then doesn't stop. "What are you doing here?"

Newt fumbles, but a reply doesn't come. He points in the direction of the kitchen. "Er," he flounders. "Minho."

"Minho? Really?"

Expectations turn out to be very different from reality. Newt is sure that, any moment now, Gally is going to step closer and make his displeasure known. The boy instead frowns, looks him over twice, and shakes his head. "Minho. Of course. Look, I-don't-know-what-your-name-is, can you hurry up? I need to use the shower."

Newt's arms stretch, his thumbs hooked into his back pockets. "Yes, about that."

"Can you, or can't you?"

"Five minutes?" Newt offers. He knocks on the door. "Five minutes?" he asks, louder.

"Yeah, five minutes," comes from inside.

Gally's gaze shifts to the door. He goes back to Newt, then back to the bathroom door, before holding up his hands in defeat. "Whatever," he says. "Pretend I wasn't here, and I'll pretend I haven't just witnessed that. It's too early for this."

Still unsure of what has just gone on, Newt waits for Gally to disappear. When the tap switches on in the bathroom, he makes his way back to the kitchen.

Newt leans his weight against the open doorway separating the kitchen from the living room. He is content to watch Minho for a moment while the boy is unaware of his audience. This Minho is more relaxed, more in his own element, than whenever Newt pesters him for a conversation. His omelette looks botched though, so there is no doubt that Minho has taken out his frustration on something all right.

"Sorry," Newt says, soft enough not to be intrusive. Minho snaps his head up regardless. Newt keeps his distance, his crutches placed next to him against the wall. He doesn't like the walking aids; they make him feel helpless. "I went too far, didn't I?"

The fire is switched off while Minho's focus remains on him. Then and there, a fragility has crept into him, like a simple touch would be able to break him. Like words might. He is beautiful, and Newt wants to walk up to him and cut his fingers on the splinters of the wreck that he caused.

In a grave misunderstanding of the whole situation, Minho just says, "It's okay."

It is not, though. It won't be. Newt longs to kiss the man who sleeps in Minho's bed until his lips can no longer feel it; needs the confirmation that what has happened has not been a goodbye. And yet he also wants this man in front of him, this man who has no clue of the extent of Newt's investment in him, to let him in. It won't be all right. Thomas has been the one to bring them together, but Newt understands only now, as he looks at the ruined omelette and the band-aids wrapped around two of Minho's fingers and falters, that it won't be Thomas to make it all fall apart.

With that sudden knowledge is a choice. Does Newt allow this to continue on the course it has taken, or does he stop it before it has a chance to expand and destroy the ties between them? 

The logical answer is easy, really. It's also the option that is going to make him unhappy, and Newt does not want to be unhappy.

"Newt?" Thomas's voice draws him out of his thoughts. He is standing next to him with a funny face, his head tilted. Part of his familiar cheek trickles through. "Hi, welcome back. Hungry?"

Newt groans. "Yes." Two slices of bread have just not been enough.

As he reclaims his seat and watches the other two join him at the table, he smiles at both and vows not to mess them up, then digs in.

 

* * *

 

Though both Minho and Newt are obviously anticipating it, Thomas does not speak until much later. Gally has made an appearance in the living room, before disappearing as soon as he caught sight of them, which has caused Minho to follow. The ensuing talk leaves Newt alone with Thomas on the couch until the silence starts to drag.

Although Minho does not share the extend of their conversation when he returns, Newt can fancy a guess. Thomas is a wanted man, and there are now two people staying over in their flat, for a couple of days at the least. Both parts must not go down easy. But Gally stays out of their way for the rest of the day, whereas Brenda passes them by several times under the pretence of looking for a phone charger.

Thomas's hand is wrapped around a mug with a loud print, as he scrapes his throat and interrupts the re-watch of last day's missed episode, "I haven't thanked you for last night."

Newt is curled up in his now favourite corner with his leg stretched. As long as he doesn't move, he barely feels it. "You've had a lot on your mind," he says, "I'm just glad you're okay."

"Why were you there anyway?" Minho is the one who starts the conversation that they really want to be having, with what might have been a tactless sentence for anyone else, except that this is Minho who asks. "We thought you'd be long gone. Newt told me your dad's company went bankrupt after, you know, that stuff in the media. That really sucks, man."

Thomas looks from Minho to Newt. He fidgets, then pauses the TV. "I'm not a criminal."

It isn't like either of them have seriously considered that option. There haven't been any heated discussions about turning him in. Newt still says, "We know. But why were you really up there? People are looking for you. And then those guards. Those weren't regular guards, were they? They scared the crap out of me."

"Janson's guards," Thomas replies.

"But the hotel is closed. Why would he post guards?"

"Because he is still after something." Thomas moves with a jittery unease. "I lost the deed, Newt. The Grand Paragon is mine by right. Not my dad. He has lost the company and they will try to take as much money from him as they can. But they can't take the Grand Paragon, because it isn't his."

"Whoa," Minho holds up his hands. "Slow down. From the start. You own the Grand Paragon?"

Thomas bites his lip. "Well. Sort of, yeah." He presses the palm of his hand against his foot. "Dad gave it to Mum as a wedding gift. When Mum passed, everyone expected the will to return it to Dad. Instead she passed it down to me. Or rather, it's mine after I graduate." He shakily breathes out. 

Newt has always assumed Thomas to get his money simply by holding up his hand, that he was set to inherit the whole chain in twenty, thirty years' time, and that he would live a comfortable life until and after then. With the chain fallen, Thomas owning the hotel changes the whole game.

"From the start," Thomas agrees. His body moves forward and back on the couch, again and again. It's barely visible, but he can't sit still. "There is a deed. When my dad transferred me to Denver, I took it with me. Only the Grand Paragon, you see. The idea was that once I was old enough, I could do with it what I liked. Dad hoped I'd come work for him, which means the Grand Paragon would essentially again be his. Mum knew the hotel business has never been my ambition. Until that time, the hotel was supposed to be part of the chain under some sort of governing clause. As in, it's managed like one of the hotels, but it's not actually one of the hotels. Anyway, I kept the deed in a safe under the sink. I thought I was being moved because of," he scrapes his throat, "circumstances. I embarrassed my family again, I suppose. I thought it was punishment. But then the newspapers started writing about my dad, and investors contacted me about a rumour that a large sum of money had gone missing, right around the time that I left New York.

"I knew things were starting to get ugly when I called my stepmom and she refused to put him on the line. Out of town, that's what she said. But then when I called his cell, it was out of use. Nobody would give me a direct answer. So I knew. At some point, I just knew."

The next part is more difficult to commit to words. Newt wants to reach for Thomas and squeeze his hand for support. 

"The party was a cover," Thomas breathes out. 

Newt retracts his hand like it's been burnt, and averts his eyes, missing the sadness in the other boy's eyes. He hasn't been wrong when he walked the penthouse that morning after; it has been good-bye party, a last time before they would part ways. Knowing it adds a bitter aftertaste to the memory.

"I used Janson as a reason," Thomas continues, softer now. "I had to get out of there, before that money was in some way going to be connected to me, and they'd jail me for it. I never saw the money, I swear. Never." He takes a breath. "I left with the rest of the people. But when I went to get it, the safe under the sink was open, and the deed gone. There was no time to look. If I had, Janson would have found me."

"So you returned to find it?" concludes Minho—whereas Newt's mind is still locked on that morning. Thomas left them in his bed, asleep and unaware. Was the night they spent together part of the escape plan? Or perhaps a last good memory to look back on fondly?

"And locked myself in," says Thomas.

"Well, you could have called," Newt mutters. He does not want to sound bitter, though if part of that filters through, then he can't be sorry for it either.

Thomas shakes his head in response. The light catches a wetness pooling at the bottom rim of his eyes. "I wanted to, I really wanted to. Especially you. If I could have, I would have. I'm putting you at risk simply by being here. How do you think I feel about that?"

"Except you're not guilty," argues Newt, while he casts a glance at Minho and sees exactly what he expects to find—a man turned into a third wheel. Part of him wants to scream at Thomas that it was three of them in that room, not two; that he cannot disregard Minho just like that. The other part says to forget about the night and every effect it has been a cause to, and never mention it again.

Then there is the traitorous part where he feels warm and happy because Thomas acknowledges the unnamed thing between them.

"They think I am!" Thomas exclaims.

"Tommy, look at me." Newt turns Thomas to face him. The first touch is electric, and he nearly forgets what he wants to say. "Is there anything we can do? Anything that can help you get out of this mess?"

Thomas stares between them. "The deed. I can't prove that I didn't take the money, but I can prove that I'm not connected to it. I don't need to embezzle money because my company is going down, because it's not my company. With the deed, I'd have no motive. If I can prove that…"

Minho speaks up in spite of himself. "So where is it?"

The answer is obvious before Thomas can say it. "Janson can't have it. If he did, he wouldn't bother with guards. He just wouldn't. That means he is still looking."

"So then what do we do?"

Thomas hangs his shoulders. His energy is depleted. "I don't know. There has to be a way. I just—I don't know."

Newt looks at Minho with concern. Minho, though lost behind Thomas's back, does not have any useful ideas about it either.

 

* * *

 

Thomas goes to bed early that evening. He hasn't been responsive since he talked, which means that it must have cost him precious energy that he hasn't been able to build up in the past few days. Minho helps him find the pack of spare toothbrushes in the bathroom drawer and offers him his phone if he wants to set an alarm or use the internet without worrying that it traces back to him in the end.

After his five o'clock microwave dinner, Gally leaves for what Newt assumes is work. He doesn't say anything before the front door just opens and closes, and then he's gone.

"Can we trust him?" Newt asks again while he pushes his fork through the plate of pasta on his lap, comfortable on the couch in the dimness of early evening. "You're sure he's not going to go to the authorities and rat on Thomas?"

"Gally and the authorities are not exactly a match made in heaven," Minho ensures him.

Minho hasn't been himself since Thomas talked. He hasn't been himself since Thomas returned, really. Minho is the one who went and brought their friend back—Newt could not have done that on his own—but now that he is here with them, Minho is sullen when he is in a mood and timid when he is not. 

At least for now, the presence of food tempers him to an agreeable mean.

"Do you think we could get our hands on surveillance tapes?" Newt wonders.

"Nah. Janson probably has those. Do you think it's someone at the party?"

It isn't likely. Though, it might be someone at the party who also worked at the hotel, which rather expands the pool exponentially instead of limiting it down to a few, Newt supposes. "It's dangerous for us to keep him here," he says quietly. "Don't get me wrong, I'm not planning on turning him in, but he is still a fugitive. We could get in a lot of trouble if they find him here. Can we really trust everyone in the house?"

Minho's eyes flicker about. He frowns—Newt forces himself to have no opinion on that, certainly not one akin to finding it adorable—and then nods his head, once. "Absolutely. He will feel better tomorrow. We can decide on a plan after that."

A plan. They are serious about this, then. "I hope it doesn't involve going back to the Grand Paragon. My legs can't handle another go at that." It comes out as a joke, except Newt is dead serious.

"We'll figure it out tomorrow," Minho promises, and somehow, it feels reassuring. It'll be fine—they will be fine. "You should probably get some rest too."

Newt smiles. "I've given it some rest all day. I can probably walk on it now if I don't strain it too much."

"Tomorrow."

"Yeah, maybe you're right." Newt nudges his leg. His crutches are right beside him on the floor as they have been all day. He doesn't want them. "A little help?"

They stumble through the door to Brenda's bedroom with as much grace as a three-legged cluster of limbs can rightfully manage. Newt laughs as he falls onto the bed, his crutches still in the living room. He hopes Minho won't fetch them, for this is how he wants to be helped out of his bed in the morning, too. 

He is slightly disappointed when Minho pushes himself up from the mess on the bed, but then the life returning to his expression makes up for it. Newt finds himself staring back at him.

He can't do this.

Newt quickly pulls his eyes away. His cheeks are heated when he scrapes his throat. He hates himself when he forces out the words. "Night, Minho."

Minho does not say something. He extracts himself from the tangle and gets up. When Newt dares a quick glance, Minho is still looking away. He is gone before Newt gets another look, flicking off the light when he leaves and drowning the room in darkness.

There is a night lamp next to the bed. Newt watches it, wondering if he should stay awake a while longer. He isn't tired. Then he twists onto his back, and staying awake or going to bed is no longer that much of an issue.

Brenda seems to have painted a myriad of small dots on the ceiling. They glow in the dark, some bigger than others and others with more intensity, in patterns that resemble actual constellations. Newt sinks back into the bed under sheets that smell of vanilla fabric softener. He watches the stars until he can almost see them flicker.

It silences the chaos that reigns in Newt's head, and thoughts over which he needs better control. As he exhales, the song of crickets comes in from outside. For a moment, t is almost as if he is far away.

A visitor is signalled with the creaking of the door. It inadvertently expels the pleasant illusion of peace. Newt frowns as he pushes himself up in the bed. There is a silhouette in the room. He knows who it is, and it doesn't scare him as much as it probably should. "Yes?" he asks, confused.

Minho closes the door behind him. He is barefoot, and Newt barely hears him as he comes closer. It is when he sits on the bed that some details come into view. Minho is in his nightwear. It is almost the same as what Thomas is wearing, although Minho isn't the type to wear slacks, and they look almost too formal on him.

The closer he is, the more Newt notices. His eyes are red as if sleepy. The colour is indiscernible in his night blindness, but the puffiness is not. All the while, Minho does not respond.

It is when their noses touch that Newt understands. A million thoughts are back in his head, creating a chaos and shouting red flags like poisonous bugs to sting him left and right. He can't do this. He needs to stop it before it has time to turn into something more.

But desire is a soothing antidote. Newt breathes hard as he tries to make a choice. He has little more than a second, and if he doesn't—

Minho makes the decision for him. Newt exhales as lips press against his own in silent enquiry. It knocks the breath out of him and it empties his mind, removes all the warnings. That in an other room is a man to whom his heart ought to belong, for it is Thomas who claimed it first. But Newt can't listen over the sound of static. He raises himself up and draws Minho in with fingertips light as feathers against the boy's jaw.

It is Newt rather than Minho who whimpers; Newt who kisses back and gives his everything to remove whatever trepidation is left. It is Newt who drapes his arms over Minho's shoulders as soon as he receives a response, and then lets him in, crawling onto his knees to eventually, when Minho has kissed him long enough for Newt to know that he isn't going to scare him away, move his weight up on the boy's lap.

It's Newt who needs what passes between them, always more than what he truly gets.

"I liked you first," he whispers against Minho's ear when they pull apart to catch their breath. It's a confession meant to stay where he once buried it, and it isn't fair to either Minho or Thomas to let it out. "I like you both, and I have no idea what I'm supposed to do about that, but I liked you first."

Minho's chest heaves, his fingers tentative on Newt's side. Newt's breath hitches in reply.

It is no longer curiosity when their mouths meet again.


	10. Ethics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last two chapters have been a lot of work, with going over the wording up to four times in some sequences. In comparison, this one feels like it just tumbled out of my sleeve. It's a really instinctive chapter, so I hope it continues to be consistent with the rest. Let me know if some things are weird?
> 
> As always, thank you so much for your continued support <3 it makes me so happy that people are reading this and sticking with it.

An hour might have passed—maybe two, but Newt can not remember the hour in which he went to bed. What matters is that he is still awake, an image of the night sky above him, and that a person is staring back at him from the opposite side of the pillow.

There are so many things he should say. Each one will spoil the moment, which is something he plans to delay until morning at the earliest. The boy looking back does not complete his heart or make him whole, or any of the old stories once made to promote a union between two people. He knows there is something wrong with him for that.

"What are you thinking?" whispers Minho. There is no reason to be quiet, but he does it anyway.

Newt closes his eyes, and sighs when another kiss is placed against his mouth. In return, his fingers blindly trace the ridge of Minho's ear. It invokes a shudder that makes him yearn for so much more.

"I'm not fair," he replies. "This, this isn't fair."

Minho pulls back. His eyes are so close that Newt can't focus, except he knows they are searching his own on instinct. "You don't want to do this?"

Newt huffs. His breath breaks against Minho's jaw. "I don't know what I want. Maybe I just want too much, and my problem is not wanting to make a choice. It would have been easier if you just, you know—"

"—stopped?"

"Stopped. Yes, fuck, stopped." Newt's voice lacks an edge. "So much easier. Please don't stop."

Minho chuckles. "All right."

Their legs touch in the dark. Newt wishes Minho would have ditched the slacks by now. Doing so might have given him the wrong idea though, which is why he doesn't bring it up. "How are you still here?" he asks in all honesty. It confounds him. "I promised I would get you your one kiss so you could figure out what that does for you. It's been, what, a hundred kisses?"

Minho presses the one hundred and first against his mouth, beseeching him to give in like he has before. "It is all I'll get, isn't it?"

He does not have to say the name for Newt to hear it. 

Thomas.

"I don't know," Newt replies. "I hope not. You're actually a pretty decent kisser, so…"

When Minho lightly punches him in the arm, Newt grins. He uses the momentum to get the boy on top of him, which isn't how they have been before, and he wants to know what that could be like. The action ought to fluster Minho because of the boy's inexperience with men. Maybe he is pushing it. Instead Minho moves like he is either a fast learner or made to fit there, only further messing with Newt's head as he pants and gives as good as he gets, his arms wrapping around the other and his legs, fuck, his legs accommodating Minho's body on their own accord to rub up against his own.

He pulls apart when he can't handle any second longer. "You want this too," he breathes, astonished.

"Is that so hard to believe?" Minho no longer sounds so confident. 

It serves as a reminder that Minho is in fact new to this. Newt happens to be the first boy he kisses, but Minho has displayed an interest in him before, the night they spent in Thomas's bed; it is maybe not such a coincidence that Newt ends up being that first kiss. Newt is still unsure as to where it comes from. Before Thomas, Minho has never given him a reason to think that he knew of Newt's existence. Newt liked him for a long while, before he gave up that dream because time turned out the most merciless of indications that Minho would never notice him, not in the one class they shared back then nor the coffee parlour they both visited to either study or hang out.

Here he is, a forgotten dream, too close to imagine there ever having been distance between them.

"It sort of is," Newt admits with a smile. It nearly turns into a mask of sadness when he remembers he can not make this last beyond the night. One night is what Thomas got, and so one is what he allows himself to spend with Minho. Then, he has to give that up, for picking Thomas would make him lose Minho, and picking Minho would alienate Thomas the same. He likes them both, which is why it is easier to have half of what he wants with both instead of nothing at all.

Minho understands this, because he kisses Newt's neck and whispers, "I'd like to try something," before he sits up and pulls his shirt off over his head. His eyes remain on Newt, though Newt's find it hard to hold that gaze when his eyes flick down to watch. His hands catch onto the cotton of his own shirt in reply, and Minho helps him out of it.

They are both making memories, for soon it will be all they have.

 

* * *

 

Breakfast that morning is all sorts of awkward. Newt forces his focus onto a plate of toast with a dedication, because every time he looks up it's either Minho or Thomas who captures his attention, and he has a hard time pulling himself away. So far he has been caught staring on three different occasions. When Minho did, all he got was a secret smile, which is better than Thomas's confusion, combining with him being unaware of what has passed between Minho and Newt the night before and turns it into something that is both painful and shameful to Newt. He feels like he has cheated on him.

He seizes the first chance he gets to return to his own apartment. This means a dependence on his crutches that he will just have to suffer, as it takes him an hour and a half to return, not including having to stop for a break on a close-by bench a couple of times.

Of course, leaving the house does not mean he is able to shut himself off from text messages. And they come, even before he reaches the boring safety of his flat.

_Thanks for coming over,_ Minho simply types. He is undoubtedly trying to say something without actually saying it, likely for that moment when Thomas will want to borrow his phone to check some emails and stumbles across their messages. _So hey, want to hang out tomorrow?_

Newt's time would be better spent looking for a new job. That's not to say he doesn't take half an hour telling himself that inviting Minho over to see where they end up is a disaster waiting to happen—just to convince himself that it might be as good as last night, but that such things can not stay perfect forever. Moreover, 'hanging out' sounds too much like a date that pretends not to be a date until he is in too deep.

Meanwhile, Thomas is waiting for Newt to do something about the email he sent, ten minutes earlier.

_Hey. You were gone fast. I thought you'd stay for a while. I'm getting a phone soon so we can talk. Please don't reply, can't run the risk of someone reading this. I suppose I just wanted to let you know I think about you, and that I'm worried about you. You took a big risk for me. If anything happens, talk to me. Can't wait until all of this is over._

The problem is that Newt really wants to talk to Thomas, about everything that has happened and about what is actually between the two of them. Going through Minho to inform Thomas is what he is less than stoked about.

As his attention span fizzles in front of the job board open in his browser tab, Newt also thinks of the moment when he has to tell Thomas about Minho. There is no escape from that inevitability, unless he can come to terms with the situation blowing up in his face.

In the end, he doesn't know what to say, which is why there is no response to either of them.

That evening, he calls up Chuck and makes up a petty excuse about his bad leg which gets as close to the truth as he can—exerted his leg climbing too many steps when the elevator was down—while he lets the other boy's buoyancy lift his spirits and distract him from his own concerns, as well as six pending messages.

When at eleven Chuck leaves his apartment in a bigger mess and Newt is alone with the silence he wants to avoid, the number has accumulated into ten unread messages, and he knows that the situation is really already blowing up without his help.

Most of them are Minho's.

_Yo. Are you okay?_

_Uh, so, about tomorrow…_

_You didn't fall asleep, did you? Sorry if I'm rambling. Yeah, you'll probably wake up tomorrow and read me digging my own grave here, but just to be sure, I didn't shuck something up big time yesterday, right?_

It goes on and on, and Newt can't take it. He can't respond in text, so he calls, his elbows leaning on the table as his feet kick against a leg. "Hi," he says as sharp as he likes himself to be. "You didn't mess anything up, all right? But I can't—we can't go on with it." He hangs up as soon as he is done to save Minho from having to respond in front of Thomas.

The line is dead for a long time. Then, a message. _I get that, but I can't stop thinking about it either._

Newt falls forward on the table. His fingers fumble his phone, which clatters on the surface before dropping to the floor. It has been through enough to be able to handle that, too, so it isn't as important as Newt's nervous breakdown which is currently turning him into a heap of shaking bones.

He feels like such an awful person when he thinks of Thomas, the worshipful kisses that they shared before his disappearance, and when he wonders if Thomas is going to leave them again. But he knows with a strong clarity that he doesn't want that any more than he wants to push Minho away.

In a moment of which he will later claim is a lapse of sanity, he retrieves his phone and replies to Thomas.

_Why did you kiss me? If you knew you were going to leave, why did you?_

Perhaps it is because Newt is desperate for a reason to not have to give either of them up. Perhaps he wants Thomas to answer him so painfully honestly that it will push him either way; the lack of a current in the calm that holds him, disabling him from any direction, is unbearable.

It's the first genuine thing Thomas says to him since his disappearance when he replies, fast and at the same time when Minho is still typing and erasing, typing and erasing—Thomas must be on a different device. _Because I had to. I couldn't leave without it._

_Then I wish you hadn't,_ Newt returns.

_Can we please not do this here?_

Newt thinks about everything that might happen if he answers using the wrong words. Newt could come over to talk to Thomas, except Minho is there. And Thomas could visit Newt's, but does Newt really want to break down and confess to any of the emotions that have been driving him mad since complications that he caused himself from within his own sanctuary?

He knows that how they go from here hinges on good communication, which is rather unfair, seeing as it is his greatest weakness. _Come over. Minho knows where I live. But I need to talk to you alone,_ he resolves at last, pressing 'send' with a grudge against the button. 

Newt finishes his death sentence with a plea to Minho to deliver Thomas to his doorstep, as anonymous as he can make him, if ever Minho was his friend.

 

* * *

 

The wait that follows is nerve-racking. Newt practices what he plans to say in a number of different scenarios. Every response he imagines is imperfect. He pictures Thomas betrayed when he tells him of Minho. Maybe he will forgive him, but then that is followed by Thomas wanting to give them an other chance, and as that would be at the expense of Minho, Newt doesn't want that either.

It is a luxury, to have two people, who have come to mean a lot to him, invested him him—or enough to kiss him, at least. To Newt, who watches the clock spend its remaining minutes of the day in order to minimise the gap between then and midnight only to start all over, it also means having to hurt someone. He occasionally wonders why he is worth the attention. It's been years since someone displayed an interest in him, and when he remembers that was all a prank designed to embarrass him in front of others, he is suddenly afraid of the hold that these two attractive men have gotten on him.

Thirty minutes have gone and he is wondering how much longer he can keep himself together, when the doorbell rings. Newt bites his lip enough to draw blood—the metallic taste unexpectedly grounds him—before he shakily unlocks the front door.

Truth, he tells himself. If he sticks with the truth, whatever happens will happen the way it should. There is peace to be found in that. Newt opens the front door when he hears the familiar sound of the elevator opening in the hallway. He sits on the bed and clasps his hands together firmly.

Regardless, there is a knock that nearly adds an extra beat to his heart.

"Come in," Newt stammers.

He's not ready for what he meets when the door opens.

 

* * *

 

Ten minutes pass by. And another ten.

At the hour, almost exactly to the minute and some fifteen into the next day, the doorbell buzzes again.

Newt sits on the bed, his head hanging between hunched shoulders, as he waits for the inevitable. He can't talk, can't force the boy on the other side of the intercom to leave when he is granted entrance to the apartment building, then to the elevator and eventually to the hallway outside his door. He wishes he could push him away. Instead he is powerless as he tries to scream against the gag that smothers his words.

Next to the door, Janson counts the seconds with a patience that suggests being close to getting what he wants at long last. He walks like he owns the place, like Newt is but a temporary problem. Had Newt not invited Thomas over in his distress to mend a few cracks, in a way that Thomas has warned isn't safe from the beginning, none of this would be happening.

Janson presses a finger to his lips and smiles, as if it is their little secret. Newt is positive he would have stormed his former manager if not for the cuff locking him in place. Although Janson's venom might stem from his association to Thomas alone, Newt is sure he has never hated anyone so much in his life, himself.

The bell to his flat buzzes. Janson waits until the elevator goes down again with the poise of a cat, before he suddenly throws the door wide open and drags a startled Thomas in by his neck. Whatever hope Newt might have had for it to be someone else, it vanishes as soon as the door is thrown shut and their eyes meet.

"Finally," Janson grins as he pushes Thomas face forward onto the bed next to Newt to slap a handcuff over his right wrist. "I've got you now, you little shit. I'd like to see you try and get out of this one."


	11. Human Adaptation

Newt breathes in.

Despite the throb that originates in his leg and crawls up to his lower spine thanks to being so cramped, he can't form the words to tell anyone. And who would listen? He is sat on the bed with Thomas's hand against his, a cloth tied before his mouth to keep the ball of cotton pressing against his tongue; there are so many ways in which this can't end well for them, and only one or two fickle ones that give a shallow sliver of hope, so remote and unlikely that they might as well not be among the options.

"What's your problem?" Thomas hisses in a low voice at the man sitting on Newt's only bureau chair.

Janson is not in a hurry. He looks self-satisfied at the result of his effort, one leg over the other and his side leaning against the padded back of the chair as if he is actually comfortable in it. Thomas is physically harmless when handcuffed to the bed, although Newt doesn't understand why Janson is here, doing all of this, yet still allowing Thomas to speak. It must be because he wants him to talk.

When the thought enters his mind that Janson could be a psychotic killer who is toying with them like they are mice before he ends them, fear grips him. He struggles against the cuff around his left wrist. Newt has never felt so helpless, so subjected to the whims of a madman, and it terrifies him.

"Isn't it obvious?" Janson asks. "You, Thomas. Your entire, rotten family. Oh, it wasn't easy to get you here, but it finally ends tonight. You're a fugitive now. When I'm done enjoying the very sight of you being unable to do anything about that, I'm going to hand you over to the police. An anonymous tip about your current whereabouts, that's all it takes. You've got to love modern-day law enforcement. They make it so easy."

"Why waste time?" Thomas defiantly counters. The fight hasn't yet left him. "You think I like looking at that ugly face of yours any more than you like looking at mine?" As opposed to Thomas's general mood after Newt and Minho found him—subdued and unwilling to go into details—Thomas refuses to budge tonight.

"You know I do," Janson simply says. "I'm looking at one about to be locked up for a very long time."

Thomas growls. "Yeah, unrightfully. But you don't care about that, do you?"

"About as much as you cared about my position the night of the party, yes."

Thomas is breathing hard. Like Newt, he is fuming and ready to claw Janson's eyes out at the first opportunity. "Newt doesn't have to suffer for that. If you leave him here, you know as well as I do that he's going to be questioned and turned into an accomplice. He has nothing to do with it."

Janson raises a brow at their ineptitude. "Honestly, Thomas. I am disappointed. One would think that after New York, you had learnt your lesson. Here you are, still stringing people along in your fall." He turns to Newt then, and Newt looks up like a deer caught in headlights. It is unfair that they can talk about him like that without giving him the ability to defend himself—what is worse is that the implication behind Janson's words has the time to sink in.

Thomas too is watching him now. Fear shimmers in the depth of his brown eyes, as he shakes his head, almost imperceptibly so. _Don't listen,_ Newt reads. Why?

"It's a shame," Janson drawls. "Such a smart boy. Had everything going for him. You had to involve him, didn't you? Now look at the mess you've made of it. Undoubtedly he'd do anything for you, like all the rest of them. Have you told him about that? The many men you've—"

"Don't," Thomas warns darkly.

"My boy, don't you think Mr. Clarke deserves to know the truth?"

Newt notices that Janson does not address him by his first name. Janson must know it, though there were no opportunities while he worked at the Grand Paragon for Janson to call him either way. Newt wants him to stop. The way he says it, it is derogatory.

"Don't you dare." Thomas sounds weaker now. "I left that behind."

Janson turns his chair a rough ninety degrees and sits opposite Thomas, as close as he can without actually being in range of his free hand. "Did you now? The drugs, the girls and boys you got into your bed just to get a free fix and cause a stir? Right up to that forced abortion that made your father finally see you for what you really are, and move you as far out of his sight as he possibly could? Denver. Of all places, my brother picked the one where you'd be stuck with me. You're a disgrace, Thomas. Don't tell me you've left all of that behind. You can't have, in less than a month."

The venom spreads between them slowly. Its intent is to hurt and to poison, even if Thomas and Newt are there for Janson's gratification until he decides he has had enough and hands them to the authorities. Newt does no longer believe that he is going to go back to class next week and pick up his life. For sheltering a fugitive, he will get several years in prison, and the resulting record will be a brand on him for the rest of his life.

What stings worse, screaming louder than all his dreams for the future crumbling in the span of less than an hour, is his heart.

Thomas's hand grasps his cuffed one, and the irony is that Newt can't pull away from it. "Don't listen to him," Thomas whispers. There are tears in his eyes, too. "I wasn't playing with you." But how can they talk when Newt only wants to withdraw, incapable of more than simple yesses and no's, with a crack expanding where his heart is supposed to be? It is what he has been afraid of since the beginning. For a man as cold as Janson to have guessed that so accurately must be impossible, unless it is based on truth.

Janson snorts when Newt averts his eyes and tries to tune out the rest of the conversation. "Yes, you were. Admit it, it was fun while it lasted. You ought to be happy I left the other one alone. Mr. Park, was it? Believe me, I'd rather see him here than Mr. Clarke. Always been trouble, that one. Alas, this was the opportunity you two gave me, and I have been biding my time too long now to wait for a better one." 

He takes out his phone—an old model, unregistered and bought for the occasion—and starts a new message. "I bet you wonder what happened to the deed," he says idly, waving his phone about once before he sends off his tip to the police. In ten minutes, they will be here, and Janson will finally be gone. It is all ending tonight. The black-and-green screen reflects in his eyes—Newt does not mean to notice, but the mention of the deed draws his attention regardless of how hollow he feels inside.

An envelope waves in front of Thomas, who purses his lips as his eyes seek to burn holes in the slip of paper. "Mine all along," Janson smirks. "To be fair, Plan A was catching you in the hotel after you went back to look for it. Which would have worked—despite how ignorant you'd be to do so—if not for you disabling my hired guards. Clever. They were expensive, I'll tell you. Not amused, you can imagine. But then you fucked up with this wonderful, wonderful boy." He nods at Newt. "Please, Thomas, did you honestly think I did not read your emails?"

"Let him go."

"Now, you know I can't do that." The smile that follows is sickly sweet. "Time is pressing, Thomas. I will enjoy reading about this in the newspapers tomorrow."

Newt glares daggers at him when Janson saunters over to the door, throws his handiwork a last proud smile, and leaves.

As soon as he does, Newt kicks Thomas in the shins. He refuses going to jail for anyone; certainly not because of someone who might have played him for a fool. With effort and as much noise as he can make without articulation, he bids the other to take off his gag. Newt's chest is an aching pit, but he is also angrier than he can remember himself being.

The swab of cotton is spat out, unfurling on the floor, as he commands, "Get out first, talk later. Get up. You see that bottle over there?"

Thomas follows his gaze, confused. "Yeah."

"Yeah. Good. Pick it up. Toss it out the window."

Thomas hesitates, then does as he is asked. Newt can tell that Thomas does want to talk. There isn't time for that; if there were, Newt would slap him in the face and be done with him for a long time indeed. The bottle hits the windowsill before it tumbles down and loudly shatters on the pavement below. "What was that for?"

"Minho. Minho's there, isn't he?"

And understanding dawns. For a moment Thomas looks like they might have a chance. "Okay. Okay, we're doing this. We need to get out."

"Ideas?"

"Wire cutters?"

"Why on Earth would I have bloody wire cutters?"

"Right. Sorry, sorry. Hammer?"

"No! Of course not."

As easy as that, Thomas's hope ebbs away. "Something to disassemble the bed? Anything?"

"We're chained to the bed base. Do you think you can just pick it up and start running around with it?" Newt sighs. "I suppose you can't pick a lock?"

Opposite him, Thomas stills. "I can try."

"You can try?" Newt groans. "Can you, or can't you?" It is about the only option they have left, he supposes, although he is scared of wasting his time on something that will not work. "I've got wire. In the kitchen drawer, to close garbage bags." He is already up, dragging the heavy frame of the bed over so Thomas can reach for the drawer. "Did you come by car?"

"Minho has no car," says Thomas as he rummages around, careful at first before time presses on and he throws everything that's in the way out of the drawer and onto the floor as his hands frantically try to search for the wire. He grins as he finds his, sits back on the bed, and works on his own lock first.

Newt wants to urge him to do his hands first, but he too understands why Thomas has to work on his own cuff first. "We need to get out of here fast," he whispers, afraid to break Thomas's concentration. "Are you sure this is going to work?"

"I broke into some houses in New York," Thomas says. "Not proud, please don't ask."

"Shit. You're the gift that keeps on giving, aren't you?"

But Newt is startled at the emotion and feels suddenly heartless, after what he sees when Thomas momentarily looks up at him. He swallows his words, nods, and busies himself looking around the house for other ways if this one fails.

Thomas tugs on Newt's cuffs then, and to Newt's surprise both the boy's hands are now busy with his own lock. He hasn't left. Time is slipping away, but Thomas is still here. Newt bites his lip.

"Go," he says.

"I'm not leaving you."

"Go, you idiot. Without you here, they can't hold me for long. They won't be able to connect you to me."

"Except my fingerprints are all over the place," Thomas says back.

"Bed frame and kitchen. I'll wipe them off."

The hands do not stop their attempt at undoing his bounds. "And Janson will only have to show them the email to turn whatever story you come up with into a lie. I'm not leaving you behind."

One hand springs free just as someone knocks on the door. Both Newt and Thomas stare at it, afraid of the same thing.

"Hey!" comes a voice. "Everything okay in there?"

Minho. Thomas runs to open the door, before he is back at Newt's side. "Don't move," he says. "I think I've got the hang of these locks." As he works with a concentration that is new to Newt, Newt is left handling the mess of bewilderment that is their friend.

"Er," he starts to Minho. "Well, shit."

"Janson," Thomas explains without looking up. "Police are on their way. Call a cab for us, then get yourself the hell out of here."

Minho is frozen in the doorframe, the sight of Newt tied to his own bed with a gag on the floor in front of him and the contents of the kitchen drawer everywhere impossible to process. "I thought you were having a fight," he says, slowly.

Newt scoffs. "Believe me, there will be a fight. Go."

"I'm not leaving you h—"

"Not you too," groans Newt. "Honestly, I'm sure sharing a prison cell isn't as romantic as it's all made up to be. Leave, now."

"I won't—"

From a few blocks away come the faint echoes of a police siren. Newt's cuff opens stiffly. Right away, he throws himself at Minho, grabs his arm, and drags him out into the hallway. The elevator is still there, and it is such a relief not to be faced with having to take the stairs. Newt has had enough stairs for a lifetime. "Midnight," he says to himself while they sink back to ground level. "No cab. Too far to walk to Minho's. Think, Newt. Think."

"Grand Paragon?" Thomas offers.

"Ten minutes. Too far." The list of possibilities slinks, the more he crosses off in his mind. None of his friends live close enough. Most of the public transportation is too impractical. What if Janson hasn't really left? What if he has calculated this in?

"Bar," he suddenly gasps. There is a bar right around the corner of the street. It plays horrible music that sometimes filters through in summer when Newt is awake late enough and has his window open. The general audience is their age though, and although they aren't dressed for the occasion, it is still a crowd to get lost in.

A 'ding' signals the end of their descent. The sirens are louder now. Newt runs as fast as he can go without tripping over his limp. His hand clasps tightly around Minho's wrist—he just hopes Thomas is following, although Thomas is also someone Newt wants to be as far away from as possible at this moment—dragging him along onto the street. At any time, those cars can round the corner and catch sight of them and end their last chance, slight as it is.

But Newt keeps running, in the very direction of the noise. He pulls Minho in at the last moment, backing up into a building until a different thrum drowns out all other sounds.

The crowd absorbs them like they are long-lost lovers. Newt keeps backing further away from the door. The music is absolutely awful, an electronic pulse of sound and laser shows that has no melody whatsoever, but tonight it sounds like the song of angels. He stops and stands on his toes to look over Minho's shoulders, trying to locate Thomas. His breath stops. Thomas isn't there. Thomas, who was supposed to be following, isn't there.

Then he catches sight of a figure hiding behind Minho's frame, and Newt's hands curl into fists. "You asshole," he spits. It is loud enough to reach past Minho. "When we get out of here, _if_ we make it out of here, you're going to tell me everything. All the shit things you did in New York, why your actual uncle is trying to lock you up, and you're going to grovel—literally grovel, Thomas—for nearly getting me caught, if you ever want me to be friends with you again."

Completely out of the blue, Minho snaps out of his stupor and hugs Newt tight. It is hard to stay focused on his anger when Newt finds himself smothered by a big lump of a man. "Minho?" he falters. "What?"

"You're safe," says Minho in relief. Newt can't see him, but he knows that Minho is smiling. His own arms carefully wrap around Minho in reply. They stay like that, in a spiral of hallucinogenic light and people grinding and laughing around them, and Thomas is powerless to do anything as Minho lifts Newt off the floor to practically spin him, making him break into a laugh.

"You're an idiot," Newt breathes with his arms on Minho's shoulder. "Put me down, Min."

"If you promise you'll stay out of trouble."

Newt kisses his cheek—it is stupid how much better Minho can make him feel after what he has been through—before Newt's eyes fixate on Thomas. He means to talk, to comfort Minho, but not here. His eyes widen. "Cops," Newt whispers. "At the door."

Of course it can't be that easy. He pulls away from Minho and drags Thomas behind them. "Restroom," he says. "If we get lost, we meet at Minho's."

"You…?"

"We'll be fine," Newt hastily says. "They probably don't even know what I look like. Go." 

If they survive the night, Newt wonders if there is going to be a safe way to clear his name. Calling the police and claiming that someone broke into his apartment sounds reasonable enough, until they figure they might as well interrogate him about his whereabouts, the night they received an anonymous tip; Newt knows that under pressure, he cracks. That means that the turn of events is turning him into a fugitive, too, the longer he remains on the defensive.

Hoisting himself up higher and wrapping his legs around Minho's waist, he might as well give himself an alibi, should they catch him here. "Kiss me," he tells his friend, moving his hand under the knee of his bad leg to support him. "Make it look like we've been here for hours. If they ask, we don't know where Thomas is. Someone broke into my flat while we were out having a good time. But really, make them uncomfortable enough not to ask."

"…Thomas?"

"We'll deal with that mess when neither of us ends up in jail tonight."

And Minho complies.

 

* * *

 

The irony is that it is Thomas who ought to be uncomfortable. 

Sitting opposite each other in Minho's room for the sake of privacy, Minho avoids every and any gaze by pretending to be busy on his phone, whereas Newt is left without distraction—he thanks the heavens his phone is password-protected, as it is still on the table in his apartment and will by now have been pocketed as evidence—and idly plays with a pen instead.

"We have to talk," Thomas breaks the silence, much as he too does not want to. His voice is hoarse.

Newt is closer to crying than he is to smiling. It is hard to stay strong when too many secrets have come between them. "About a couple of things." Many things.

Minho remains unresponsive. And Thomas does not want to start, so it is up to Newt to take the lead. Hiss eyes are glued to the ballpoint pen. "Can we talk about Janson last?"

He gets a nod, and then another. And that's it; that is all the response he has to work with. Newt gathers what strength he has left. "Fine. If nobody else will, I'll go first. Thomas," he gathers his courage, "I sort of kissed Minho."

"…I saw that."

Newt's head snaps up.

"In the bar," Thomas explains, faintly. "Do you like him?"

At this, Minho stops pretending to type. And Newt feels cornered, because he had planned to talk to Thomas first, make him understand his situation before Newt could decide how he felt about that. He is given no space to breathe tonight, and part of that is his own doing.

Truth, he reminds himself.

"Yes."

Minho exhales, while Thomas stops breathing. He inclines his head. "You mean…?"

"I mean, I like him," Newt mutters. "And I like you. A lot. I like both of you a lot. And I'm not going to choose between you two, because I don't want to lose either of you. Period. The bar," he winces as he watches out for Minho's response, "wasn't supposed to happen. We kissed once, before tonight, and that was supposed to be the end of it. I was gonna tell you, before Janson took over."

His throat is dry, his heart racing, as he waits for something. Newt is afraid, being forced to speak the truth so crudely in a far from ideal situation, that they will be mad. He pulls his legs up on the chair. For once he is glad that Thomas and Minho are on the bed, leaving him no space.

"Sorry," he mutters. "You're my friends. I didn't mean…"

Thomas looks from him to Minho, and then back. He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. "Wait," he finally says. And leaves it at that. Words elude him.

It's then that Minho contributes, so quietly that both of them can hardly hear it. "I like Newt, Thomas."

"Yeah? so do I," Thomas counters. 

It is like he does not want to give Minho space, and Newt sees already what is happening. He bites the inside of his cheek. "And nothing else is going to happen," he snaps. "This here, this is exactly the reason why it can't. It's not—it can't come between us. I made some stupid mistakes, all right? What's done is done." Bizarrely, he is still smiling, ever so slightly and wholly involuntarily. They like him too. Even if he won't act on it, it means something—though he can't imagine going back from this to just being friends.

Thomas folds his arms. He won't look at Newt. "You kissed him twice. Does that mean I can still kiss you once?"

Dumbstruck, Newt stares at him. "Speaking of which, Thomas. Forced abortion? Sleeping with people left and right? What makes you believe I even want to kiss you again? Ever? Give me one reason why I have to justify my actions in front of you when you seem so free with your affections."

The boy shrinks away against the wall, and becomes smaller when Minho too scrutinises him. "What the hell, dude?"

"That was a long time ago," Thomas whispers.

"If that's what you call a long time." They are all throwing stones at each other, trampling upon each other's emotions. Janson may have won already. "Help me understand, then. You say you've changed. Explain it to me. Right now, I honestly don't know what to think of you."

"It's not mine, all right?!"

Thomas is standing up in the middle of the room. Unless he has been playing music, Gally will have heard. Brenda most certainly has. Nobody knocks on the door for a long time though, and Thomas deflates. "It isn't mine. She says it is, but it's not. I've never—" 

He sinks back to the bed. All the life has gone out of him. "They're all so shallow. They all are, and I was one of them. We thought that just because we had money, we were better than everyone else. And in a way we were, because nobody talked back. Nobody complained when we pushed our limits. The problem was that there were none, not really. We took drugs, expensive party drugs—never the same, never enough to actually get addicted—and we thought we were invincible. I have no recollection of half the people I slept while I was on a high. But whoever I woke up next to in the morning, it was never—"

His voice breaks. Newt loathes the person Thomas describes, as much as he hates seeing Thomas so vulnerable.

"I suppose we were gods," Thomas finishes in a whisper, "but I was desperate for something normal. Moving to Denver was, in that regard, a godsend. I didn't want to leave New York, you know. New York is home, it still is. But I don't like who I am when I'm there. I got a second chance here. Neither of you knew me. And while that lasted, it was good."

When he stops, both Newt and Minho are watching him. His past laid bare for their judgement, Thomas looks away.

"Would you stay?" Minho carefully breaches the silence. "If we can fix this thing—and I'm not saying we can, because it's a pile of clunk, all of it—does that mean you'd stay?"

Thomas nods. "I like you two," he admits. "It is like Newt says. You two ground me. If that means just being friends, I'd still rather have that than lose him or you." He nudges Minho, a faint whisper of a smile appearing. The words are out, the weight off his shoulders. "So. I guess you're no longer curious."

Newt blinks.

"No longer curious." Minho tries a smile as he shakes his head, as if Newt is simply not in the room. "Kind of selective though, I suppose."

"Good for you."

Newt clears his throat. He doesn't know how to feel about Thomas or his past and all its complications; he really isn't ready to add Minho being smug about having kissed him to the mix. "Excuse me."

Minho flips his phone cover open and closed twice. "Dude, I know it's not going to happen again, all right?" What he leaves out, and what both Newt and Thomas still hear, is that he is happy with what he did get. Minho seems to think of something. He glances from Newt to Thomas and back to Newt, and closes his mouth. "Like, hypothetically," he starts. "What if I'm okay with you making out with Thomas if Thomas is okay with you making out with me?"

"Are you making fun of me?" Newt whispers lowly. He isn't some plaything to be passed between friends. He refuses to be; the very suggestion raises his hackles. If his crutches weren't lost in his apartment, he would likely employ one. Hard.

Sure enough, Minho flushes and ducks. Thoroughly embarrassed, he mutters, "Yeah, stupid idea. Understood. So, uh, Janson?"

"Janson has the deed," Thomas says, though Minho's remark has him now looking between Newt and Minho weirdly, too. "If we break into his place—"

"—No."

"But when we get our hands on the deed…"

Newt glares at them both. "And if we don't, we're all going to jail. I'm not going to jail, Thomas." At the same time, he knows that something has to be done. Newt has tests he needs to retake. His grades are bad enough after last exams week, and he still chooses it over being forced to run from a man with a grudge against his own nephew and a disregard for collateral damage. "We set him up," he thinks out loud, looking at Thomas. "He has something we want, and we have just the bait to lure him in. What do you say, Greenie?"

Thomas winces. "Seriously, Newt?"

But Newt is tired of running. He wants his apartment back, he wants no word of this to reach his parents if he can help it, and he is sick of Janson throwing his life upside-down like some self-entitled bastard who thinks he can get away with it all. A plan is starting to form. It isn't perfect, but it might work. What's more, it involves no stairs. Newt smiles.

"You think you can lie for me? Really, straight-faced lie? The way that makes Rat Man trust your word?"

A grin tugs at Thomas's mouth. It widens and widens until it spans practically from ear to ear. He leans forward. "On my word, he will never know what hit him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the last chapter of the year, that leaves me: a Happy New Year, everyone, and see you in 2016!


	12. New Media

Upon waking, the first reminder that Newt is not in his own bed is the stiffness in his joints. No matter the amount of pillows he has deployed to get remotely close to comfort, the couch remains unforgiving, and his spine suffers the consequence of that.

The second is movement on the big television from the corner of his eyes. The room is obscured, and a strategically placed board shields him from most of the flickering light, accounting for why it hasn't woken him before. A cable leads from the screen to the figure in Minho's usual corner on the couch. It twitches occasionally, correlating once or twice to the sound of buttons being pressed.

"What time is it?" Newt croaks, pushing himself into a sitting position.

One more plastic click, and the screen freezes. "Hey, you're up." A voice he is unused to hearing in the morning. "Eleven-ish, I think. Sleep well?"

Newt's leg is numb but tingly, and his back isn't much better. He presses his lips together, tasting morning with a grimace. Brenda has reclaimed her room after Newt left for his own apartment, and Minho took the only spare mattress, which is a ratty old thing that is—Minho assures, though he has offered it to Newt out of politeness—worse than sleeping on concrete floor. So it is the couch for Newt. If Gally bugs him, Minho promised him while dragging covers and pillows to the living room, he'd have to deal with both of his roommates. 

Apparently Brenda has become fond of Newt, because the covers and pillows are all hers and her suggestion; it was all she could do for him at two in the morning.

"Not that good, huh?" Thomas muses. "You can switch to the bed if you want. Minho's out. I'm sure he won't mind."

Pushing his hair around into an attempt at order and stretching his good leg, Newt blearily acknowledges that the damage might already have been done. "Already?"

Thomas shakes his head. "Up at five for a jog. I can't imagine him being able to sit still. He got back and took a shower at six, and I'm sure he would have been gone right away if he could have. I asked him to make breakfast just to give him something to do. If you're hungry, there's some boiled eggs in a pan on the stove."

"Right." Newt recalls forging plans late into the night. He is glad of the notes that will help his spotty memory. The detail where he will be excluded from field work thanks to his injury however, that is still vivid enough. It are mostly Newt's plans, Newt's ideas, which is why it is not fair for both Thomas and Minho to insist on him not taking part. "So we wait?"

"We can't exactly go out the door and show our faces, I suppose."

Thomas is right; they are both fugitives now. "How much longer until I'm officially missing?" he wonders aloud. Newt thinks of the moment his parents are going to call. His phone has been switched off for a reason, just like Thomas's is. It is still weird not to be there when Minho plants the first crumbs of what is going to turn into a digital paper trail in the days to come, all from the relative safety of an anonymous library computer. None of them have the money to replace their phones and ensure avoiding detection, but there are thankfully other ways to bypass whatever Janson is tracking.

Thomas puts the game controller away. "We'll be as fast as we can. Promise. It depends on how fast Rat Man lets us be." He seems uneasy, out of his element. "Look, Newt, I'm sorry I dragged you into this. If I hadn't gone look for the deed in the hotel…"

Newt shrugs. "You'd still be missing."

"Yeah, but you would have been fine." The topic concerns Thomas more than he wants Newt to know, although he gravely underestimates Newt's skill at reading him. "You and Minho would still be friends without me. Probably more, I think. I don't deserve this, Newt." He says it without dramatics, like he has given everything a long thought and this is the only logical conclusion that he can come up with.

Nevertheless, Newt doesn't like it when people presume to think on his behalf. "Tough luck," he says back, with his cover wrapped around him and his weight curled up comfortably. His good leg pushes the controller further up on the table. "This is Janson's fault. Yes, fine, I'm not happy about all the shit about you sleeping with a lot of people. Kind of throws a shadow on some things, that." And Thomas really needs no elaboration to know what Newt is saying. "I also know that you've been a friend to me, despite a lot of things. Are we gonna sit here and complain about the past, Tommy? Really? Before breakfast?"

When Thomas can't suppress a smile, Newt is reminded of why he let this boy into his life. He returns the favour despite himself. "Are you good for tonight?" he wants to be sure. "It's not safe, you know it's not. I know I said I was tired of the illegal business…"

"Safe enough," Thomas assures him. "I've done it before, remember?"

Newt playfully kicks him. "Yes, and we've seen where you ended up with that."

"Have some faith."

"Faith is a lot to ask. Some wishful thinking, maybe."

"Your pep talk is brutal."

Newt wishes he could take a picture of them and send it to Minho, just because he wants to make Minho send them something back. He sinks back into the sheets, his phone miserably unavailable. "Just make it back," he says. "I need you to."

And maybe that is enough for Thomas for now, because he hands Newt a second controller without words, and Newt accepts it. 

 

* * *

 

Gally joins Newt on the couch, eventually, out of pure necessity. 

Newt has occupied the living room like it is his bedroom. True, the covers are neatly folded and out of the way, the pillows stacked in a manner no longer resembling a fortress, but that is simply keeping up appearances. He is still a guest in this house. He hasn't left his spot for most of the day. His leg is demanding rest with a nag that almost suggests finding a doctor or some serious painkillers.

They don't speak as Gally zaps through a couple of channels to end up at CNN. He forks his noodles down casually while he watches a report of a regional flooding and locals being evacuated.

In this display of power with the remote a token of his position at the top of the pecking order, he pointedly does not ask Newt whether he wants to watch something else. He puts his bare feet on the table, wills the stranger in the living room to remark on it, and eventually pads to the kitchen after the flood has made way for financial news, only to return with a large bowl of popcorn that he keeps to himself as he switches over to the latest of end-of-year programming.

"Well?" he prods eventually, annoyed. "You a goddamn mute?"

But Newt has by now gotten comfortable about this guy who does not want to share—Newt does not feel like talking either—and needs a moment to understand that Gally addresses him. His words are brash and sceptic, and he recognises it for what it is. "No, Sir," he says, his voice so neutral that it can't possibly offend. "Just watching some TV. Waiting."

"Waiting? On Minho?" Gally wants to know, while he pushes a few kernels into his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes are on the screen like they have been all evening.

Newt inclines his head, once. "He is out with Thomas."

Gally scowls on cue. He drops the handful of popcorn back into the bowl, as if the name tastes sour. "Thomas. Rich boy, pretty boy, who thinks he can do whatever he wants. I know the kind of person he is, all right. I don't like him."

Newt does not reply; does not know what he is supposed to say. On the television, a woman with an obnoxiously bright voice is going through last March's news highlights.

He does not like being here, left alone in the living room of an apartment that isn't his. He doesn't like the wait, occupying a stranger's space and feeling like an intruder. He has his own place, his own bed and his own sheets; he's got books to read on those rare moments when he actually has nothing on his hands. A place close to some nice parks, where he could have gone for a stroll. Maybe seek out Alby, if he's feeling up for the thirty minute walk, or send him a message when he is not.

The nervous energy is shredding him. Gally must think that he is the reason. Gally isn't able to imagine Thomas in the Grand Paragon Hotel, explicitly doing something that could send him straight to jail, or Minho being there to help him. Gally cannot comprehend that the thought of losing either of them tonight without being able to know or do a thing is a constant strain on his thoughts.

"He's a good guy," Newt says absently.

"No, he's not." Gally bites back unapologetically. "Are he and Minho—," he inclines his head meaningfully, "—is Thomas after Minho or something?" He pulls a face at that, and Newt can tell that the idea makes him uncomfortable. "Which is cool," Gally quickly adds, "just, you know, the thought. Two guys. I don't know man, not my thing."

Newt wonders if Gally truly is that blind. He blandly says back, "It is mine, if you hadn't noticed," and watches as the other becomes red in the face, which offers Newt enough retribution. "They have some stuff to do," he adds when Gally has suffered long enough. "I hurt my leg, so I couldn't come along."

Gally zaps to a different channel, equally tired of the grating show host. "Illegal stuff, isn't it?"

Newt does not answer that.

"So why are you here?"

Again, Newt remains quiet.

At long last, Gally sighs. "Whatever. 'It's complicated', right?" He has no clue how right he is as he says it. "Just don't get me involved. Want some popcorn? You're pathetic, looking like you're starving, that's what you are." 

The bowl passes from his hands into Newt's, and a can of beer follows. They spend the rest of the night in an unspoken agreement of either comfortable silence or snarky remarks at the next dumb thing on television. Newt is never able to forget about Thomas and Minho, and every hour they are gone adds to his nervousness, but he appreciates the distraction that Gally provides nonetheless.

The lock of the front door rattles around one in the morning, and Gally switches off the TV. "Time to get some sleep," he tells Newt, leaving him alone in the darker living room to wait for Minho and Thomas. His throat is constricted, his spine rigid as he sits straight, his frame wrapped in covers. Newt fears that it is only one of them. He can't imagine what he would do if it's neither, if they have both been caught. If it's Janson. The police.

They stumble into the living room in a burst of laughter. Thomas falls back on the couch, clutching his stomach, while Minho's frame is brimming with positive energy as his eyes fall on Newt. They look like they've had the best night of their lives, with a kick that is still waiting to wear off. They are more than fine.

But Newt, Newt is miserably in tears. All of the accumulated stress of the last hours, the fear that he hasn't been aware has affected him so much, finds itself released in an emotional breakdown. He stretches his hand for Minho, for either of them, but he can't reach. "Come here," he pleads. "You're back. I thought—I feared—God, you're safe."

Minho is the first to sit close enough for Newt to pull him into a tight hug. It scares him how much he cares. "I hated—I—" He is at a loss for words, and so he merely pulls him in tighter, his hands becoming spiders on the back of Minho's jacket. The smell of sweat tells a tale of them running, laughing, of making it out alive. The news will fill in the rest of the details tomorrow.

Soon enough, one hand detaches and tugs at Thomas. Fingers touch and pull together, and then Newt is drawing the other in as well.

It is the physical contact that calms him; it's Thomas chuckling softy against his ear, reassuring him that they are all right, that it worked; it's Minho never letting go of Newt, shifting the universe back to that comfortable equilibrium where Newt is no longer balancing on the ledge like he has been all evening. They are a heap of limbs in the corner of the couch, hopelessly pitiful.

He doesn't know who is the first to start it. A kiss presses against his cheek, the person behind it unclear. As an isolated incident, it ignites a good warmth in the pit of Newt's stomach and wraps him in affection. The problem is that does not remain an isolated incident. Not when another is placed lower, and certainly not when Newt ignores everything he has been telling himself last few days to meet the third one, simply because that is what feels right.

"Don't do that to me again," he whispers against the mouth. "I'm coming with you next time."

"Your leg—" Lips move against his own, muffled; speech is not their highest priority. "You shouldn't—"

"It's too dangerous." Thomas whispers it against his neck, all hot breath and an accidental brushing of lips against skin that becomes not so accidental, and he can't suppress the intake of breath, swallowed before it reaches fruition but still not undetected.

It's the final bond keeping them in place to finally snap, the last evidence that although Newt tries hard not to ruin their friendship, that is neither his responsibility alone nor something that he truly wants, for Newt twists on the couch and kisses the other with as much necessity as the first.

He sinks back into the corner. Thomas's body is dragged on top of him, but not without saving space for Minho. "I'm still not—" Newt starts half-heartedly. He feels like he has to tell them that this, whatever it is, is not happening again. He can't find the will to finish his sentence. His arms are draped over Thomas's shoulders as they meld together in a rhythm that is sensual and every bit a reminder to Newt that they are safe, that he can stop worrying, as it is of the night the three shared a bed before. Couch—trivialities.

Except it is not the same. As soon as Thomas gives Minho space by drawing his attentions to the nape of Newt's neck, Minho takes it by turning Newt to face him and drawing him in. "Still too dangerous," he says, like what they are doing is supposed to make him change his mind.

"I won't sit and wait for you all night again," Newt argues. And is this really happening? Why isn't he stopping it? He feels light-headed, a foreign heat crawling under his skin. Could he stop it even if he wanted to?

Thomas murmurs against his skin, "Can we talk about this tomorrow?"

"Sounds perfect," Minho agrees, withdrawing for now to watch the way the other two blend into each other while he idly traces Newt's wrist, his fingers, his neck, nearly skips over to Thomas once or twice before he remembers what he's doing and pulls back.

And lost in it all, Newt can only weakly nod. Tomorrow, tomorrow is a wonderful plan. Tomorrow he will be the voice of reason.

 

* * *

 

"Give it back," Brenda sighs in her most annoyed voice. "I need to goddamn go."

"Five minutes," Minho barters. "I'll do the dishes for a week."

"Look, I'm gonna miss my train if you don't hurry up. Use Gally's. What's so important anyway? Can't you use your laptop?"

And Minho could, but none of them is taking chances. He sullenly has to pass the phone in his hands back to the rightful owner, and sits back down on the kitchen chair glumly with such a display of drama that when he's not looking, Thomas rolls his eyes at Newt. Newt has to suppress his amusement.

"Jesus." Brenda throws her hands up. "Whatever. Make sure it's charged when I get back, and don't go messing around in the settings. And nothing shady. You're such a baby, Minho."

Minho doesn't deign to defend himself. "You're the best!" he calls after her as she leaves the house—she gives him the finger, waving her hand over her shoulder—and is back online as soon as it is just the three of them.

Newt focuses on the phone, because it is easier that way. "So," he asks, impatient. Minho is taking his time, while what they are looking for really ought to be front page news. "Is one of you going to tell me about how it went?" He has avoided contact with either of them since he woke up. Even simple things like accidentally bumping shoulders unhinges his thoughts. At least he isn't alone in that; they have all been on their toes this morning.

Since Minho is still searching with increasing frustration—"This site sucks!", "You probably have to download the app.", "I'm not downloading anything!"—it is up to Thomas to explain. He sits back, watches Minho become this close to throwing the phone against a wall after yet another unscaling website, and grins. 

"Like planned," he says. "Barricaded the doors—seriously, I have no idea why Janson's guards were still there, but you were right, they must have assumed I'd either return or they really didn't want me to—and switched the power back on. They had a guy stationed outside for backup this time. They learnt, I guess. We had to run like crazy. Then again," Thomas eyes are alight with mischief, "we were better prepared this time too. The backup guy couldn't get the doors on the base floor unlocked fast enough when the alarm went off. Which was right after we switched all the lights on. Every one of them. I expected some fuses to blow."

"Found one!" Minho triumphantly interjects.

All three bend over the small screen. There it is, a picture of the Grand Paragon Hotel, every room lit like the place has never gone out of business. "People were on the streets to have a look before any of the guards got out," Thomas narrates. "We stuck around for the police. Then we made sure we got out of there."

Minho kicks him under the table. "You want to do the reading, shank?"

"Nope. All yours."

Minho shares a look with Thomas, which is longer than the furtive glance he has with Newt. They both look away almost as soon as their eyes meet. He scrapes his throat and starts.

The article makes no mention of Janson. The guards discovered after a strange event that powered up the building at 1 AM, it says, have been taken in for questioning. Police are still investigating what they were doing there, but it has already been revealed that it may have been a set-up. Fresh fingerprints have been found on the power switches, and the doors seem to have been barricaded from the outside.

There is a suspicion, the article also notes, that the fingertips will trace back to Thomas Faraday, son of the Grand Paragon Hotel Group, who is still missing.

Thomas glows with pride. "Of course they will. Wait until Janson hears about that. He'll be fuming with rage."

"And then we break in," Minho grins.

"And I'm coming with you," nods Newt, determined.

He is unprepared for when they look at him at the same time, and less so when they reply, in perfect unison and both as serious as he has ever seen them, "No."

Newt glowers. "Yes, I am."

"Out of the question."

"Come on, Newt. You can't run. Be sensible."

"Then I'll stay out of the way," Newt reasons. He won't be on the sideline, not knowing what is going on; not again. Putting his foot down, he turns to both of them. Flashes remind him of last night's impropriety—of making out with his two friends for too long really, of ending up on Minho's bed and of waking up with all three of them still in the same room—and his cheeks almost flush as he forces himself not to look away. "It's either that or holding me in the loop. No more waiting for you to either show up or not, is that understood?"

"How?"

Newt shrugs, taps on the phone. "Minho to Brenda? Alby to Brenda? We get a new phone? I'm not going to be in bloody limbo waiting for you. I can't do that."

They mean too much to him. It is not about clearing his name or about returning to a murderous routine of classes, homework and making enough money—if he finds another job. It is about not being willing to lose these two boys. Newt will fight for that. His leg is an obstruction, a problem, but he can work around that. He has to.

The game will change. As soon as the fingerprints are confirmed to be Thomas's, Janson will react. Janson is a man who needs to be on top of it all, and the move at the hotel is intended to sweep the rug out from under his feet. He will lash out, do twice his best to find them. That makes him even more dangerous in the days to come.

"Newt," Thomas says softly. There is pity in his voice, and Newt fears what comes next. "You know that you're the biggest reason for us to come back, right?" It is not what he expects to hear. "If you're caught, do you think we won't do everything to get you out, even if it means jeopardising our own safety?"

"But what if it's you?" Newt feels vulnerable to ask it. He understands Thomas's point, but the knife cuts both ways. "Don't you think I'd want to give everything to get you out?"

Minho suddenly pushes the phone away. "This pisses me off," he says. "Tonight. We're making our move tonight. No more of this shucking discussion about anyone losing anyone. Newt, if you won't take no for an answer, you get us a getaway car and an extra phone. Got that?"

It is such a concession that Newt wants to pull him in for a hug. "Got it," he affirms with a smile the size of the Sun, and reminds himself to thank Minho for it appropriately when all of this is over.

But after. They have enough on their mind as it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's back to work tomorrow! I will still do my best to update as much as I can, of course (back to writing in my breaks and imagining what to write in the remaining hours), but it might be slower than you've gotten used to last two weeks. For those sharing the same fate; hang in there, make it through!
> 
> As always, let me know if something about the story (or grammar, or punctuation) does not make sense. Don't be shy to drop a line if you liked it either. 
> 
> See you very soon!


	13. Criminal Psychology

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 50,000 words in a month! Thanks, everyone who has been reading this, for inspiring me to be faster and making this possible. I remember that one NaNoWriMo thing that ended up being a horrible unfinished story just because there was a word count to be made, but I'm proud of this unofficial second win. It's been an absolute pleasure <3

A faint drizzle ripples the pools of water that converge on the pavement. It comes down as a curtain in the light of a lantern close-by, painted yellow and looking worse than it really is. It provides a pleasant background drum on the roof of the car.

"So, Newt." Alby grips the steering wheel of the rental parked at the corner of the street, where it is hidden from sight, with leather gloves intended to keep his prints off the car. Nobody is going to trace this back to him, is the statement he makes. "New shirt?"

Newt wraps his coat closer around him. His shoulders are damp from crossing the distance between Minho's door and the pick-up place a few blocks away. Using an umbrella with the Grand Paragon's logo on it isn't very smart, and neither Minho nor his roommates apparently worry about getting caught in the rain. Which is why Newt, who can't run, ends up like this. "Oh. It's Minho's. I borrowed it from him."

Whereas Newt has grown accustomed to Thomas and Minho's attention, Alby is a different case. Alby knows what Newt was like before he made two new friends who ended up turning his life upside-down, which is why Alby knows how unlikely it is for Newt to borrow a shirt from anyone, let alone some popular guy from the running team.

Sure enough, Alby looks over the varsity sweater sceptically. "You borrowed it?"

"Well, my shirt stank, so."

Newt tries not to keep checking Alby's phone for messages or read over the ones already there. He knows all he needs to know; Thomas and Minho are safe. One ear bud keeps him on constant audio feedback, which is why he is up to date on the two—the Red Team, Thomas affectionately calls them—still getting into position.

Minho sends him a picture then, making a peace sign at the camera and illuminating Thomas behind him, who has no idea that he's being photographed. As though they are there for fun—as though this will not be used against them if the picture falls into the wrong hands. Newt erases it from his friend's phone grudgingly, though a stupid smile has stuck itself on his lips.

Alby is still locked onto the shirt. "…Are you serious? Minho?"

"What?" Newt protests. "It's not that bad. Eyes on the road. It's almost time."

"And you are absolutely sure Janson isn't home?" Alby dislikes Janson as much as anyone who has had to work under him does. He possibly dislikes doing Newt this favour more.

Newt shrugs. "Frypan confirmed sighting him at some hotel event. We're good."

"Yeah? What does Frypan do at a hotel event?"

"Spying for us," Newt says with a straight face. He chuckles at the look Alby gives him, then shakes it off. "The only way this can go wrong is if we screw it up. Remember, we're not here to steal anything. He's probably got that thing I told you about on himself. We don't expect to find it. We just need him angry. When he is angry—really, really angry—he will get sloppy. That's when we get him."

"Hey," Minho sounds static over the one-way connection. "We're going in. Thomas takes over from here. Start recording."

"Check," Thomas confirms. "Tango Foxtrot, at your disposal."

 _Is this nerd aware that we're not in a computer game?,_ Newt responds in message. As agreed upon, the text is to be deleted after being read.

Thomas laughs as he catches the text. "Be ready for extraction, Team Alpha Charlie."

"Is this guy for real?" Alby grumbles.

Newt has to agree that now is not the time for charm or light-heartedness. "Thanks for doing this, Alb," he says again.

On their side of the feed, Minho proceeds to convey exactly what they think, in his own especially inappropriate way. "Go, slinthead. Flirt shucking later."

Alby's jaw drops.

"…It's complicated," Newt brings up as defence. When his friend stares at him so long that his cheeks burn, he awkwardly diverts his attention back to the screen. _Ready for extraction. Proceed._

The phone is transferred to Thomas then, and silence falls. The connection slowly begins to draw a fuzzy image of what is going on on the other side.

There is a rummaging sound, then a click—a door—and what follows are footsteps that ought not sound so loud. Newt hopes it is a trick of the microphone.

"I'm in," Thomas whispers.

"That easy?" Alby asks Newt. "What is this guy? A professional burglar?"

It is too long a story to tell, which is why Newt hopes his friend understands his silence and the finger before his mouth as a promise that one day Newt will tell him everything, as he tunes back into the noise.

"Living room," whispers Thomas. His voice crackles like electricity. "No sign of anyone home. Alarm is disabled. I will take a quick look around, before I leave the key on the table. Everything is fine. Over."

While he walks around, all contact with Minho has ended. Thomas has a new phone, a beautifully archaic Stone Age model—the internet access it provides is about as much modern technology as the device can handle. They had to delve into Minho's credit card debt to pay for it; a necessary evil to prevent involving Brenda by proxy of her phone. But because Minho is no longer near the device that he has up to this point shared with Thomas, he has fallen off the radar. And so, if he sticks to the plan, he will by now be a safe distance away. It's a flaw in the plan that they haven't found a better solution for.

And that means that Thomas is wholly on his own.

He has moved into the hallway, checking for safes and going through pockets to see if maybe Janson has been careless.

"Downstairs clear," he whispers. "Going up now."

Newt's eyes widen. Upstairs isn't part of the deal. There are a number of decent exits on the ground floor, but only one if he goes up. It is too dangerous. _Abort,_ he commands. _Drop the package and get out._

"Negative," Thomas whispers. "Coast is clear. Two minutes, in and out. Keep an eye out for me."

 _Thomas, fucking no,_ a third number joins in. Newt's phone recognises it before he does; it is Minho. On the phone registered to his name. Everyone is suddenly ignoring the plan—or perhaps the plan that they shared with Newt is only half of what is actually intended to going down. Minho risks detection, and Newt doesn't understand why.

 _Min, what are you doing?!_ he types frantically. _Thomas, get out of there!_

 _Abort,_ Minho demands. _Listen, you shank! Abort!_

"Fine," Thomas replies into the feed, louder than he has been before. He sounds annoyed and a little exasperated. "I'm coming back down. No need to get so paranoid. Minho, get o—"

"See, that's where you're wrong, Thomas."

The air leaves Newt lungs in a single blow that leaves him crippled. He can't breathe, can't type, when he hears the second voice on the feed, right before the transmission ends. Dread has him in a crushing grip.

"…Oh, shit," whispers Alby as he ignites the engine.

"Wait!" Newt gasps. "Alby, wait! Minho is still coming! Shit. _Shit_." He erases all messages. "What is he doing there? Frypan was supposed to update us when he moved."

It was supposed to be safe.

A new message from Minho pops up.

" _Plan B_ ," whispers Newt. "No. No, please no. Not Plan B."

"What is Plan B?" Alby sounds angry, angry and terrified. He hasn't agreed to half of this, yet being here in a rented car and having listened to Thomas's side of the conversation means that he is now an accessory to a crime. "Newt, we are getting out right now. If Minho isn't here in five seconds…"

But Minho won't be. Minho is moving onto Plan B. Newt numbly stares at the only message left on his screen. It is every man for himself now, he knows it as much as he hates it. In the end it is not Newt's leg that turns out to be their downfall. His leg is no match for Thomas's stubbornness, and he curses it even as he knows that Thomas going upstairs is not what truly set it into motion. None of them have seen Janson come or go. By rights he shouldn't be in there.

Thomas is inaccessible. Newt wonders if he has read Minho's last words, and if Thomas is still safe. He has a taser and a tape recorder; if he's smart, he is using both of them right now. Newt can only hope that it is enough to stand up against whatever deviousness Janson brings to the table.

He tells Alby to drive with a hollow feeling in his chest as he lives up to his own part of Plan B.

"911," says the lady on the other side of the line, "state your emergency."

Newt sits broken in the passenger seat. He closes his eyes. "…I'd like to report a robbery."

 

* * *

 

Monday and Tuesday pass in a haze. While students resit their tests, Newt spends his time at Minho's apartment in hiding. Alby offered him a place, but he can't involve Alby any more than he already selfishly has. Their contact has been reduced to a minimum, and he has nothing to do but to sit in Minho's bedroom, staying hooked to the media like the first time he lost Thomas.

Thomas is likely to be in New York by now. A front page article in the Monday news reported his capture and the plan to bring him into the ongoing investigation of his family. Petty theft is clearly not something he will be tried for, as long as he can be more useful elsewhere in bringing down the nation's most reputable hotel chain.

As much as Newt has read about Thomas, no article mentions Janson. He hopes for good news. Every day that passes, the chances of that happening become less likely; Minho and he are both too afraid to return to Janson's home, first because the heightened security but now, on Wednesday, because they fear of what they will find. That Plan B, a huge risk that depends on so many liabilities that it takes luck rather than design, has indeed failed.

That they've lost him; that as a last resort, they have ended giving him up.

The sentiment reverberates in everything. Minho barely talks to Newt. They sleep in the same bed, which seems to have Brenda and Gally convinced that they are an official item. In reality, sleep eludes them when they are apart; it is fickle enough when they try to find comfort in proximity.

By now, Newt's parents will be informed. Newt wonders how he could ever mess up so badly. He used to be a good student, with a passion for taking up extra classes when they inspired him and with good enough grades to do something decent with his life after graduation.

Now, chances are that he may never set foot in the building again. If things do not change soon, being locked between four walls is going to be too much on itself. He already considers what will happen when he turns himself in.

"There was a piece about the Grand Paragon today," he whispers to Minho that night. "The hotels are being put back on the market to pay off a part of the debts. "Nothing about Thomas."

Minho does not respond as he shifts closer. His eyes are closed. There is nothing romantic about the situation; they are two people dealing with the loss of a third.

"How were classes? Did you say hi to Alby for me?"

A hum confirms that, and Newt breathes out. Somewhere in an other room, a phone sounds.

"What do we do?" Minho asks in the dark. Little is left from his once so confident personality. "If we can clear your name…" But the words sound empty. Minho knows just as well how many times they have asked themselves that before.

No acceptable answer has yet been found. Newt shakes his head. It is the first time he says what can no longer be avoided, and he hates how Minho's frame crumples. There is no more fight in either of them.

He is giving up.

Minho kisses him then. It is an ill-concealed attempt at holding onto him. And it is not that Newt does not want to; Minho continues to be someone to steal his breath or crinkle his eyes with little effort. It's just that they both mourn a loss, and so tonight the kiss offers only solace.

"A week," Newt whispers. "If nothing has changed, I'll go in. I won't tell them about you, Min. I'm tired. It is all such a mess. It's probably not as bad as we think it is. A couple of months, you know? Maybe they'll let me off with an ankle bracelet, something silly like that. I don't know. I can't take this much longer."

"You're not a criminal."

"And you know it," smiles Newt softly. "That's good enough."

Minho tucks Newt under his chin. It makes Newt's feet stick out from under the covers every time, and in response he always presses them against Minho's calves for warmth. Minho likes them like that, which is why Newt doesn't protest. "Not until we are sure that Janson is still free. All right? Before you turn yourself in, we are going to have to be one hundred percent sure."

Newt is okay with that. "And if he's not?"

Minho breathes out. "Then you're not going anywhere."

"Yeah," Newt nods, his voice soft in the dark as sleep approaches him early that night. "Yeah, okay."


	14. War and Peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Thank you so, so much for your patience. This chapter was done a few days ago, but I struggled with the general voice and took some time to look at it from a distance (which, you might like to hear, happened by writing the next chapter; so expect that one fast). The story is slowly drawing to a close, and really got bigger than I thought it would.
> 
> Also, The Grand Paragon Hotel made a list of top 2015 stories! Check it out [here](http://straightouttatheglade.tumblr.com/post/137058783884/this-year-the-thominewt-ship-grew-thanks-to-the). Thanks, straightouttatheglade, for putting it all together!

It is Friday when the lights of the Grand Paragon hotel are on during the day. 

Any chances for Newt to retake his tests—whichever they were, there must have been at least a few—are now gone, and the parallel seems to extend to the rest of his life. It is when he wakes up and indulges himself in draping his body over Minho's still sleeping form under the pretense of stretching for Alby's old phone, when he scrolls through the list of news feed notifications without expecting anything, that he sees it.

The Grand Paragon is open.

Newt blinks away his sleep. He confirms the contents of the article by finding three similar ones from different sources that say practically the same, other than that each newspaper jumps to a different conclusion.

Minho shifts under him. They both refuse to admit it, but Newt and he have taken to committing things to memory. Minho comes back to bed after his morning run when he has his first hour of class off. Newt feigns being asleep when he does, curling up against him as easily as a flower opening to the sun. When Newt properly wakes up, an hour or so later, Minho often follows the same pattern.

"Hey," he says softly. "You think they're putting the Grand Paragon up for sale?" The other hotels have become available for investors, but Denver is not the same. Denver is Thomas's. "Look at this."

The display of Minho pretending to wake up does not fool Newt. When the boy manoeuvres himself into a position with Newt's back against Minho's chest and them practically spooning—with more effort than Minho being the small spoon would have taken, Newt takes note—Minho has earned himself a fond smile. "Don't pretend now."

"Like you're a saint," Minho murmurs too close to his ear. "Sup?"

"The Grand Paragon is up and running."

"Oh. 'Kay." He frowns and draws Newt closer. He has five more days before he has to give up waking up like this, along with a number of other things. While he still can, he is considerably forward. "Is it the cops?"

"It doesn't say," says Newt. "Actually, everyone thinks it's something different. But that's odd, isn't it? It doesn't sound like they just switched on the lights for the hell of it."

"Mh. Does it change anything?" is Minho's primary concern. 

Minho seems comfortable enough to consider staying in for the day. Newt doesn't want him to. Minho is the only one of them who is still able to go to class, and he never missed out on one before, unless ill. Which he is not often, Newt remembers. To stay away would draw attention. Nevertheless, Newt's hands brush the arms around his waist. There are times when he feels so guilty for enjoying these moments after what they have done to Thomas. Once or twice a day, when he is sleepy enough, he allows himself to stop thinking for a while. Like now. They are the best few minutes of the day.

Newt rolls around in the embrace. "I don't know. Maybe. You think you can check it out for me after classes?"

When they are like this, Minho changes back into his old self. He stops being a shell trying to hold together something not quite broken but not all right either. What has happened affects him strongly, although he never brings it up. "Sure," he says with a rare cocky smile. "But there's an 'if'."

"Hm?"

"You make dinner for me tonight. No ordering in. I'll know if you order in."

Newt's smile falls. "I told you, I'd poison you." He is notably terrible at cooking—Newt has yet to meet the person who appreciates his overcooked pasta or his dull but cheap staple recipes. Microwave dinners are usually his only hope. "I can't go outside, either."

"Then send me a list of ingredients," says Minho, removing the first objection without effort. "I can't take you out. Let me have at least this."

"Like a date?" It is an attempt at a tease, but Newt drops the smile soon, because Minho is dead serious.

"Well, yeah." Minho pries the phone from Newt's hands, except he hasn't considered that it turns Newt's undivided attention to him, close as they are, and it flusters him unexpectedly. "That's what you do when you like someone, isn't it?"

He looks so abysmally awful at the confession that Newt wonders for the first time just how many times Minho has been in a similar situation. He expected him to be tougher, that's for sure. In the morning bed, he snorts and pulls Minho against him, and gives himself a moment to savour all of this. Minho likes him. There have been pointers enough, but to hear it being said aloud doesn't lessen the impact on his heart.

In an other time, they might have seen it come to fruition. Their life has become so screwed up, with Minho bargaining checking up on the hotel against a date; with them sleeping in the same bed but lacking something neither is willing to name, and neither willing to admit that every day the moment approaches when Minho will be the last of them left.

"You could have just asked," Newt chuckles with his eyes closed and his hands leisurely running through Minho's hair. "What's your favourite? I'll try not to muck it up for once. No promises there about succeeding."

It will give him something to do for a change.

 

* * *

 

Newt spends the day listlessly going through the motions. With the news mapped, he watches some television. The cheap entertainment and the number of commercial breaks are not quite his thing as much as they are a distraction. He is unused to so much free time. There are no classes to study for, and no job to head off to in half an hour.

He browses some recipes in the late afternoon. Making dinner has become the highlight of his day, and God, he feels like he aged ten years just thinking about that. As he makes himself familiar with the contents of the kitchen cabinets, the doorbell rings.

He stills. It is the apartment's door, not the one outside. Which is odd, because Minho is not supposed to be back until six at the earliest, and he shares his last class with Gally.

"Brenda?" he calls out, his voice echoing. "Is that you?"

When nobody answers, Newt pads over to the looking glass. Something doesn't feel good. It isn't his home and he should not open the door anyway, but that isn't it. Still, he is safe from Janson and anyone else as long as he keeps the door shut. There is no harm in looking.

The small window in the door is black.

"Who is it?" asks he.

From the other side of the painted wood comes a voice that ought to be familiar. "Newt Clarke?" The looking glass is uncovered to display a badge. "Officer John Morris, Denver Police Department. Please open the door."

There is a part of Newt that understands that the numbness that spreads into his limbs is not how he is supposed to respond. The door is still keeping him away from harm for now. It won't last forever. And Newt has known that for days now; there comes a time when he has to stop running. Still, he curses the timing. Tomorrow would have been better. Not now, with Minho looking forward to a dinner when he comes home. For Newt to be there.

They aren't the terms on which Newt wants to leave.

"Mr. Clarke?" Officer Morris asks again. "I just want to talk."

Of course, a talk is less threatening than not being able to come back home at the end of the day. Newt lets out a breath. It comes out shaky. By rights the police shouldn't even be aware that he is here—or alone in the apartment, for that matter. As they haven't addressed him as Minho or Gally, they must know about that. 

With a heavy heart his hands fumble with the lock, before opening the door. "You want to talk?" he asks uncertainly.

"At the station, if you please." Officer Morris seems relieved of Newt's cooperation. Really though, there is nothing else that Newt can do. His limp has healed, but the apartment is still several floors up, and he doubts he can push his luck on the stairs a third time. Officer Morris gives him a one-over. "Perhaps you'll want to change into something else first."

Newt looks down at his pyjama bottoms and oversize shirt. "Am I allowed?" Because Officer Morris is being awfully nice for someone who is here to arrest an accomplice. Nevertheless, he gets a nod while the man puts his badge back, the danger of his escape abated, before taking a seat in the living room wholly without threat right where Newt used to sleep, while his partner stands watch in the hallway.

Newt feels like he has left his body as he goes through the motions of picking out a pair of Minho's jeans and finding his own shirt, which should still be clean enough after Minho put it in the laundry on Tuesday. Things are surreal. The future has stopped moving and the past is but a blur, leaving him with only a glitchy short term memory to deal with the present. He forgets his socks, then his phone—switched off since Janson decided to pay him a visit in his own apartment—and he keeps reminding himself that he has to write Minho a note, once he finds a pen.

The ride from Minho's to the station goes by in a haze. The streets flash by, none of them sticking out or registering. Later, he will remember the sound of his own breathing, and not much more than that. It isn't like it is the end of his life, although in the back seat of the sedan with bars between him and Officer Morris and his partner, being taken to the station, it might as well be.

"Don't worry about those," the police officer has assured him. Newt does not understand that either.

He goes through an hour of questioning in a dull interrogation room with the mandatory mirror wall. Newt watches the panel in the beginning, imagining people scrutinising his motions and his responses, until it makes him nervous and he turns his attention to the aluminium table instead. His hands are not in cuffs, and the questions they ask are not what he expects them to be. 

For starters, nobody asks him about his disappearance from his own apartment, after Janson's anonymous tip. Then there are an awful lot about Thomas that he can't answer; New York-specific things, about his friends over there, and a lot about his family. Newt does not know Thomas's parents, and it is in that room that he finds out Thomas has a sister a year younger than him.

The majority of questions are about the hotel. They want to know about his responsibilities and about his co-workers, about anything that comes to mind or that he might want to share. There is great interest in his encounter with Janson in the kitchen. Then there are several questions that relate directly to Minho, questions that Newt dodges as best as he can without making him look suspicious. So when he is asked about his business at Minho's place, Newt tells them that Minho is his boyfriend. As Officer Morris has caught them in the same bed before, it must not be a stretch to believe. And from there on, as soon as he finds out that the subject makes Officer Morris uncomfortable, Newt finds himself talking freely of their dinner plans. It is easier than other subjects.

"All right," the man says at long last. He leans forward and ends the recording. Offering Newt a hand and ignoring his prisoner's obvious confusion, he proceeds to opens the door for him. "Thank you," he says kindly, "we appreciate your cooperation. if you'll follow me to the desk for some paperwork, Mr. Clarke. You may call someone to pick you up."

"That's it?" Newt blinks. He doesn't know whether he wants to laugh or cry. An accumulated burden of weeks falls off his shoulders, yet he is unable to accept it. Surely he will be tracked back home and made to set up Minho, or they will keep an eye on him and use him as bait to round up Janson. 

Maybe they are just waiting for him to make a mistake.

Officer Morris pats him on the shoulder with pursed lips, merriment in his eyes. "That's it. It's late, Mr. Clarke. I'm sure you'd like to go back home." As they make it through the hallway, the man hums and checks his phone for the time. It is dark outside. He then adds, "I've been told that you missed a week's worth of classes, Mr. Clarke. Now, I don't fancy to know why someone whom I've been told is a respectable grade-A student who enjoys learning has not gone to any of his classes for a week, nor do I want to be the one telling you what to do, but I'd suggest you catch up fast. Or at least clean up that apartment of yours."

And then, when they make it to the desk and Officer Morris says, "It seems like you've already got a ride," Newt truly gives up on trying to understand anything.

There, with his hands in his pockets and wearing clothes that are tailored to his frame, unrecognisable as the lost boy that Minho and Newt once rescued from the hotel tower, stands Thomas. He carries a beautiful smile, slightly cocky, and neither anklet nor handcuffs.

"Hello, Newt," he breathes. A New York accent, not previously as strong, graces his familiar vowels. But that composure is gone as soon as he hugs Newt and holds him tight for so long that Newt doubts Thomas will ever let go. He does not mind it. His hands press flat against Thomas's back, unsure, as he lets it all wash over him like it is his last supper.

"How…?" he starts. "You—"

Thomas laughs in relief. "Yeah. Tell me about it. I've got so much to tell you, trust me. But not here. Call Min, ask him to come over. Let's get out of here." He presses a kiss on Newt's cheek, solid and reaffirming, like he means to say something else.

"I've been told that my place is a pigsty," replies Newt. He looks over to Officer Morris, who still expects him to sign something and regards their close interaction with incomprehension.

"Mine," Thomas says back. "The Grand Paragon."

"The Grand—" Newt is a right mess by now. He quickly scribbles his signature under some forms, then follows behind Thomas. Their hands are linked when they leave the building. "My battery's dead," he says. There is a cab waiting for them. "I don't know Min's number."

"But you know his address?"

Newt has been there for so long. He has ordered pizzas to Minho's home, and he knows the names of every street in the block. Of course he knows the address. Gradually, he feels reality beginning to trickle back in over the flat-line that has ruled his thoughts since the ringing of the doorbell.

He passes the address to the driver. As the cab makes for Minho's place, Newt blinks and stares. He keeps turning back to Thomas, expecting a mirage, or perhaps something that gives the dream away. The longer he watches, the more solid Thomas becomes. He is here, alive and free. And legally so, this time, just like Newt. "The deed," he suddenly understands. "Plan B worked, didn't it? Janson had the deed on him."

With that comes the guilt. Plan B should never have been an acceptable backup plan. What had they been thinking, sending in the police with Thomas as bait while Thomas's only purpose was to play for time? Janson had always loved hearing himself talk, but Janson was no fool. The odds had been stacked against them since the start.

"Janson is arrested," Thomas nods, equally lost. "It's going to be the trial of the century. Brother against brother-in-law. Not that it matters. The company has gone under."

"And you didn't call."

"Couldn't. It would have made both of us suspicious."

"You've been to New York, haven't you?"

Thomas looks at the way he is dressed. "It shows, doesn't it?"

"Sort of does."

"Sorry about that." Thomas is oddly self-aware about his appearance. "A lot of meetings about the Grand Paragon today. I flew in an hour ago."

"Are you staying?" That is all Newt wants to hear. He bites the inside of his cheek, for while he has had enough excitement for a lifetime, it seems like it will only pick up for Thomas from here on out. He now has business meetings to attend to—a considerable, expensive plane trip away—and then there is the lawsuit against his family. Nothing is simple any more.

"Do you want me to?" asks Thomas. His thoughts are so transparent that they might as well be written on his skin. If Newt says no, then Thomas will no longer be in the way. That dinner date with Minho will mean something, and Newt won't have to be concerned about complicated situations inevitably arising with the other around.

Thomas does not seem to get that Newt has gotten fairly used to complications by now. Newt moves forward on the back seat to corner the man in the fancy suit seated next to him, then drags him in for a kiss that has them both panting when they pull free. "Let me rephrase that," he mutters. "If you think I'm letting you go, Tommy, you've got another thing coming."

Newt still does not fully grasp the gravity of it all when they pull up to fetch Minho. It'll come; in a day or two, it will. He will understand that life continues with or without him crossing the street, and that maybe in time nobody will care about him going off the radar for several weeks. His college years will just be that, given long enough. And his parents will eventually forgive him.

In a day or two, he will be okay with that.


	15. Principles of Chaos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your patience! I got sidetracked reading this amazing 150k newtmas fic that left an imprint on me in the days that followed ([something to talk about](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1089620), highly recommended!), and betaing the living daylights out of the last chapter first (sense, it makes not). Well. Without further ado, enjoy!
> 
> 17-1: because of several comments, I just decided to add some more chapters. So although the next chapter is technically going to be the end, there will be two more from Minho and Thomas's point of view.

Normal is not quite the right word that Newt would use for what his life returns to, once he returns home. The first week, there is little contact with either Thomas or Minho, at least not in person. Then when he lies awake at night however, the messages will come. They start at around eight, and they don't stop until he falls asleep.

He has considered switching off the device, once or twice, but Newt does not want to; every text makes him smile, and a picture does funny things with him, especially when they contain either or both of his two favourite people hanging out at Thomas's penthouse during moments when he is in Denver. He still finds himself scrolling back to that one where Thomas fell asleep on the couch after a long day and Minho decided to decorate him for a snapshot.

The reason that Newt can't give himself the leeway to see them is simple. Even aside from figuring out what he feels for both men, there is simply too much that he has to do. It has been waiting patiently all along while he had other priorities to attend to, until it now requires his immediate attention. 

His parents took the first plane to Denver after Newt contacted them to tell them that he was fine. They have spent a day being upset at him and demanding answers, and they have offered him several times by now to buy him a ticket back to London. Not that that comes as a surprise. His dad had to go back after a day because of his work, but his mother has a room at some Bed and Breakfast not far away, and she looks like she plans to stick around for a while. About as long as it takes to convince herself that her son is doing as fine as he tells her repeatedly that he is—or that he accepts the ticket.

While Newt does enjoy seeing his mother again, there is also the matter of his homework. The disaster that his major has become is not even remotely funny, and Newt is up to his elbows in new material. He has to accept that he failed four classes last semester. Next year, when those four will be added to his schedule, is going to be a struggle. 

Given that new perspective, he has to admit that he appreciates Thomas's ability to wipe away a three-week delay, which is more than him, within such a short period of time.

So it isn't the tangle that he has manoeuvred himself into with his two friends, he tells himself, but every time they send him a message when he is hopelessly lost in an assignment or stuck explaining to his mum that yes, he will get a new job very soon and no, he does not have a criminal record, well, he does wish he could allow himself to join them at the movies or in the coffee parlour instead. Or anything, as long as it includes getting away from his home and closer to them.

 _Almost back on track?_ Minho sends him at eleven on the Friday night after his first week back in class, which is when Newt is still so not close to being finished and also thoroughly done with it all.

_Nope. Are you at the hotel?_

_You know me too well._

_You're there every day._ In hindsight, that isn't a question Newt needed to have answered. _Homework's a drag. What are you up to?_

 _Not much. Throwing stuff at Thomas when he's being boring on the phone. Come over, team up on him with me._ The ease that is Minho's reasoning is so familiar that it almost hurts. _Miss you around, shank. Thomas too. No homework in the weekend, all right? Come have some fun._

 _I promised Mum I'd show her around the city tomorrow morning,_ Newt replies. It is a weak excuse that isn't quite as much trying to brush anyone off as it must sound like.

_So tell her your two boyfriends want to see you._

Newt winces. He does not know how to respond to that; he has never called them his two boyfriends and, as he hears it, it makes him feel like he is being dishonest to both of them. There and then, he hates the word.

 _Or at least one of them,_ Minho tries when the silence stretches out into discomfort. _Hey, am I crossing a line? Because you have to tell me if I am._

Newt tries to come up with something decent to say. He could apologise for the confusion, or he could explain to Minho that they aren't boyfriends, which is something that he shouldn't have to explain, because they just aren't. Right? Yet he is scared that Minho will take it the wrong way. Nothing that Newt comes up with sounds safe enough to prevent that, and the more he thinks about it, the more cornered he starts to feel.

 _Sorry,_ Minho fills in in a different room, in a different world, where he is so remote from Newt. _Sounds better than 'the two guys you make out with, right?'_ Newt's indecision seems to have upset him either way, because the words pack a punch whether they mean to or not.

It is exactly what Newt has been afraid would happen, and yet Minho doesn't see it right as he enables it to unfold. _I miss the two guys I make out with,_ Newt replies in an attempt to kill the radio silence and convey that he does care, no matter what Minho must think of him. _They're also my friends. Two boyfriends, Min? That isn't going to work._ In fact, it is a recipe for disaster, much as their lives already are the wreckage of a massive crash and there is little left still to bring to ruin. Simply said, three is a crowd. One of them is eventually going to end up the jealous party.

 _Then pick one,_ Minho says back, disgruntled.

At the same time in a different window, welcomed with relief after Minho applying pressure, Thomas types, _Hi! Asked Minho over but all he does is play with his phone. What's up?_

Newt is more inclined to talk to Thomas, who isn't chatting to him on his phone that often any more these days, and who doesn't ask Minho's impossible questions. _Annoyed by Minho._ He mutters the words aloud as he types them in. _Almost up to date with things, I think. Haven't seen you in class all week. So I guess you're really dropping Anthropology, huh?_

It is one of those questions that have been on Newt's mind all week. The seat where Thomas used to be is now permanently empty, while he is off attending to all sorts of matters.

It is the Grand Paragon. If Thomas can make it profitable again, it might mean not having to surrender to getting a crippling student loan, just like it implies more financial stability for the rest of his family. Their funds have taken a big hit. His sister is in her first year of Medicine, and Thomas does not want her to give that up.

So he pushes himself. He takes board meetings, tries to get together a team to work on getting the last Grand Paragon Hotel again profitable without his input. But for that, he also needs bank loans, permits, and all those things that he knows little to nothing about. His father helps him, of course, but Thomas does not want to depend on him too much. The man has already hinted at his son to sign the deed over to his name and be done with it, and he can only pretend not to hear that so many times before it creates a crack.

 _I want to stay,_ Thomas replies. By now Minho has stopped responding, which means they he is likely enough sulking somewhere. Newt feels like he can't do anything right. _Maybe next year. There is too much I have to take care of right now._

Next year, they will no longer be in the same year. They will see each other in the hallways, but not in class. Then again, Newt has Thomas back, and beggars can't be choosers.

 _What did you say to Minho?_ Thomas adds. _He's grumpy as fuck._

Of course Minho is. Newt rolls over in his bed and smothers a groan with his pillow. _Fine,_ he types back to Minho at long last, frustrated. _Stay where you are, I'm coming over._ He knows exactly what he is going to have to do in order to get into his friend's thick skull why all of this is doomed to fail from the start. 

He doesn't like it, but he knows he will have to.

 

* * *

 

As soon as the door of the penthouse opens at a few minutes before midnight, Newt's resolution wavers. Part of him wishes that Thomas hadn't had the elevator curfew fixed as one of the first changes made in the hotel. Newt wouldn't have been able to come up and continue with what he is here for, and it would have been nice to have an excuse.

The door opens to Minho, who is beaming and looking so happy to see him that it breaks Newt's heart. Because Newt moves past him into the living room, searches out Thomas, and subsequently kisses him full on the mouth. The leather of the couch crunches under them as he sits on Thomas's lap and whispers, so softly that Minho can't hear it, "Kiss me back. Do it now."

Startled, Thomas moves his hands to Newt's hip and gives in, just a second, before he frowns, takes a glance at Minho and breathes back, "Why are you doing this?" Thomas's voice betrays just how much he wants this, even if his head must tell him that this is not the way. 

That is why Newt does it, after all. "To prove a point," he murmurs back, and intentionally lets out a soft gasp that renders Thomas's resistance powerless. It is intended, however, for Minho. Newt's heart squeezes painfully as he imagines how his other friend must look right now. 

He does not allow himself to relent until he is sure that if he does not, worse things will come of it. After Newt extricates himself again, retreating into the empty chair closest to them to create a safe distance away from both of them and pulling up his leg to rub at his ankle, he looks directly at Minho. His pupils are blown and his lips still obviously flushed. "Is this what you want?" he asks. "Be honest."

Minho is practically in tears—Newt suddenly hates himself with a passion for being responsible for that—as he shakes his head, bites the inside of his cheek. "What are you—?"

"If I picked Thomas," Newt presses, "would you be okay with that?"

"You don't have to…"

"No? You didn't like that, did you? Don't you get it, Min? If I had to pick one of you, you'd only accept it if I picked you. And if you were both my boyfriend—and let's not even get into how bad of an idea that is—I would kiss him all the time. You would have to see that." With every word, he wants to stop talking more. His hands are shaking, and he thinks he is going to be sick. Newt pleads for Minho to understand. "Yeah, sure, it's just a kiss now, but what if it's not? What if it's more? Please tell me you understand why I can't do this. Could you, Min? Could you do this?"

"Newt," Thomas starts softly under him. Newt remains trained on Minho. "What is all of this really about?"

"Minho's bad mood," Newt responds, his throat dry.

"I asked him to be mine," Minho whispers. He looks so betrayed and wounded, and every word is an effort. Newt regrets having thought this was a good idea.

"Hypothetically," he says back.

"Not hypothetically!" The way that Minho looks at Newt then will never be forgotten. "I asked you to pick, but you didn't have to go that far, Newt. Shit, a simple 'no' would have done it for me."

And that's it. The floor falls out from under Newt's feet all at once, his balance shifting. Minho was serious. He was serious when he said that he wanted Newt to pick. And Newt thought—he thought it was just a manner of speech, didn't he? That it was frustration making Minho push him for a choice.

"Honestly?" Minho nearly spits out. "I would have been content with half your attention. I love you, all right? You're a guy and all of that, but I'd be okay with half of you, because at least it's better than having nothing at all. And Thomas, I'm pretty sure Thomas is the same."

Thomas averts his eyes. He does not deny it.

On the couch, in an other man's lap, Newt wants to disappear there and then, never to show his face again. It should have been so obvious to him, that Minho is in too deep, as much as Thomas's silent confession comes as a bit of a surprise. To think they can ever be just friends is as foolish a dream as the idea of letting both of them into his heart.

"You're willing to settle because you love me?" he stammers.

Minho shrugs, and Thomas nods, once, both chastised.

"How is that—how can that ever be balanced?" Newt's voice is cracking. "How, Minho? I came here with the intent to make you jealous and show you why this is going to be doomed from the start and I did, didn't I? Why would you settle for that? One of you would always be the third wheel. That's no way to be happy, and you deserve more than that. You both do."

None of them says anything. Newt feels safer at the distance between them, but only remotely. Already he wishes he was on the couch, or next to Minho, where he is able to touch and truly comfort himself.

"If you come up with an way," he admits, feeling raw and broken, "I'll take it." He can't lose either of them. He won't.

The heartbreak in Minho's eyes settles for a dull throb as the boy shifts his weight onto his other leg. His eyes are far away. "What if it's equal?" he tries. "If there's a way that we can make it equal?" He looks desperate and heartbroken at the same time, the fight having gone out of him.

The thing is, it can't be equal. Not when Newt is the one having to divide his attention and his heart, and two people who are willing to settle all of theirs in exchange for whatever small bit they can get. "Maybe," Newt thinks, "I don't know. Maybe if something only happens when it's all three of us. Either I spend time with both of you, or not at all." He already knows that that is a rule he is inevitably going to break. Minho goes to the same university, after all. They see each other all the time.

Thomas tilts his head. "What if nobody is a third wheel."

"Like I said," Newt nods.

The boy however shakes a negative. "Not exactly." He turns to observe Minho, who is all sorts of lost, standing in the middle of the room with his arms at his side, and something about that makes him drop the subject. "Never mind."

"What is it?" Newt presses.

But Thomas shakes his head. "Something for an other day. I think I'm going to step outside for a while, get some fresh air or something. Stay." His gaze locks onto Newt and leads it to the other man. _Fix it,_ he seems to say. _He needs you to._ And maybe, just maybe Newt thinks he reads, _I need you to_ , as a hidden afterthought, like Thomas's happiness does depend on both his friends and not just the one.

Newt bites his lip as the door falls shut, making it just him and Minho.

"…Sorry," he says, so quietly that it might not be heard.

Minho lets out a pent up breath. "That wasn't fair."

Newt wasn't. "Sorry," he says again, even when the mess that he caused was the whole point. It won't be fair to either of them. Newt struggles to come up with something to say. He tries to grasp for words to make it all better. If they exist, they are tonight eluding him, angry with him for what he has done. His eyes prickle. Newt can't remember there being a time in his life where he has felt this awful before. "I didn't want to hurt you."

"By kissing Thomas? Really?" 

If he says it like that, then sure, it sounds so logical. Newt pulls his leg further up, presses his thumb against his knee and traces the seams. "By showing you what you will be in for if I get with both of you. But none of that matters, does it? All of this is going to blow up soon, and it doesn't matter what choice I make."

Minho sits on the edge of the couch. When he reaches and takes Newt's hand off his jeans, Newt notices Minho's frown, just as Minho knows that Newt tries so hard to keep his shattered self together. "What are you talking about?"

"I love both of you," whispers Newt, "and I am losing both of you. No matter what I do, it won't be enough. And I'll blame myself for not picking one of you, or not having pushed hard enough to stay friends, or having pushed too hard."

"Hey," Minho mutters, his thumb drawing circles on the back of Newt's hand. "Why do you keep thinking that this has to be your decision to make?" He has never been one to initiate a hug when it isn't a casual one, but he pulls Newt in just the same. "Can you stop thinking for a moment? You just told me you love me. So what if it blows up tomorrow? I watched you fall for Thomas and I thought, no way in hell, man, that isn't going to happen, but you just told me you love me just now. That's just crazy."

Newt snorts despite himself, and tries to cover that up by grace of clearing his tear ducts. "You weren't gay."

"Didn't stop me from wanting to kiss you," Minho sounds equally pathetic, but lighter than he has before. "I'm glad I got the chance, too. I'd do it all again. Watch you make out with him and all."

"You're serious." Which hits home, all of a sudden. Minho is serious about this. Newt withdraws from the hug enough so that he can search the boy's eyes. There is honesty in them, and so much devotion that it is staggering, right under the layer of—adorable, his mind betrays him—confusion. 

"Well, yes."

"Just the three of us?" Newt asks.

"Obviously."

"And you're really okay with this?"

Minho searches Newt's eyes. He looks for signs to tell him to put his guard back up. They're both practically snot-nosed, horribly uncharming, and Minho sees Newt at his very worst, broken by the choices he has had to make. At his most honest.

"Yeah."

"There will have to be rules," warns Newt.

"Done," says Minho.

"If one of us starts being left out, we break it off."

"Absolutely."

"And no more secrets. If you're jealous, you tell me."

"Agreed."

Newt laughs through his tears. "You're just going to be okay with everything I say, aren't you?"

"Pretty much," grins Minho. It earns him a swat. "But you might probably want to wait until Thomas gets back before you start writing stuff down."

"This is going to be so weird." With every doubt that Minho takes away, Newt feels more weightless. Any time now, he will be soaring. There is a nag at the back of his thoughts that tells him not to be lulled into a false sense of security and that things will get very bad, very soon.

Newt does not want to think about tomorrow. Not today. The burst of butterflies when Minho lifts him up to deposit him on the bed under half-hearted protests and lies down opposite him, a space of one person between them, just as the promise that they can't kiss until Thomas is back—for honesty is key—leave no room for thoughts beyond the now.

What Newt tells his mother in the morning? He really doesn't know.


	16. Emerging Worlds

Janson won't let go of the hold he has on Newt. His angry eyes and tense jaw are enough, even now, for Newt to want to create more distance between them. The few yards that separate them, all old lacquered mahogany and inlaid marble, are not enough.

"Mr. Clarke?"

Newt inhales deeply and nods.

"On Thursday the 31st of December," his recollection begins, "Mr. Janson gained unlawful entry into my apartment. Just after midnight. I was waiting for Thomas to come over at the time. We had private matters to discuss, so I asked to talk to him in person. In an email," a transcript of which is part of the evidence—Newt's attention flits to Thomas in the audience, "Thomas agreed to meet me. That was a mistake. I didn't think any of it when the doorbell rang, until Mr. Janson forced entry into my apartment and overcame me. He handcuffed me to my bed."

The testimony has been well prepared and gone over so many times that he knows by heart which words to say. That does not mean that he is ready to tell his story to the general audience, much less his parents. It is the first time for them to hear all it, sitting in the audience of the New York State Supreme Court building and surrounded by a select few members of the international press, the rest of which await the end of the trial and the minute they get to flock around the Faraday family, desperate for anything to write about, on the steps outside.

"What happened then, Mr. Clarke?" asks the stern judge whose name Newt may have forgot, but whose capability he has not. The man has consistently stayed objective during prior statements from Thomas and a few staff members from the Denver Grand Paragon Hotel who have worked under Janson. He appreciates that.

"Then Thomas came in, and Mr. Janson locked him to the bed frame next to me before Thomas could get away. He took out the deed then and waved it in our faces, and then he called the police to arrest us. Mr. Janson made it very clear that his problem was with Thomas, and that I was just," he glances at Janson, scrapes his throat awkwardly, "'collateral'. Thomas was able to undo our handcuffs—"

"How did he manage that?" the judge interrupts before Newt can skip over it.

He purses his mouth. "Picked it, Sir." Newt is aware that his words put both him and Thomas in a bad light, as they do not hide the many minor offences that have been committed in order to keep Thomas safe, but he will tell it all today, any detail that will be asked of him. "Then we ran."

Janson regards him with the eyes of a man who shall not forget. 

His lawyer nudges him once or twice, for it is obvious to anyone who knows him. This is a man who will do his time quietly, then come back to make the lives miserable of everyone whom he thinks is responsible. Janson says nothing after the reprimand, and Newt can still make out every syllable of the unspoken curse that Janson sends his way.

"It has been said that you broke into the Grand Paragon Hotel to retrieve Mr. Faraday in a previous statement."

"Yes, Sir. From Janson's hired guards."

"And you were certain they were his guards?"

"He said so," counters Newt. A murmur is beginning to rise in court, and the judge demands silence first before asking him to continue. 

So Newt tells it all; of Janson having told him about the guards while he was waiting for Thomas to walk into his trap, of Janson's assumption that Thomas would return to the hotel to look for the deed, by then already in his possession. Newt talks about the safe in the bathroom, open on the morning after Thomas's disappearance, but still closed when he was there the night before.

When he tells a group of total strangers hanging onto his every word about waking up in Thomas's bed the next morning, along with Minho, embarrassment creeps into his skin. He has been told that speaking of that moment in particular will explain his life becoming tangled with Thomas's, but he still pointedly avoids looking his parents in the eye after he says it.

Then it is Janson's turn. His lawyer fires incriminating question after another at him, the questions meant to discredit him. This too Newt anticipates from practice between him and one of the Faradays' team of lawyers. The rapid volley of short questions are intended to stop him from thinking too long about what he wants to say.

Nevertheless, there are still some that are so invasive that it makes Newt uncomfortable to answer them, down to the nitty gritty of his relationship with Thomas.

In an attempt to keep a low profile, he says that they are complicated. Complicated, which sums it up better than any other word, yet is still considered too vague for the literalness of the law. And so Newt is forced to answer with blunt honesty that he is in love both Thomas and Minho, that they are okay with that, and that they are still working on working it all out. 

Several heads turn in the direction of the two boys mentioned. 

"Sorry, Mum," Newt adds apologetically, as if this could almost be funny, years from now. "I promise I'll introduce you to them later."

A respectable distance away from a smirking Janson, Thomas's father seems to assume this to be the next big scandal that his son has inevitably gotten himself into. He groans and shields his eyes from onlookers, while the sketch artist captures his likeness and reporters around the room take notes with a fury matched only in hell. In the audience, Thomas's sister—a girl with sky blue eyes and long hair so dark that it is almost black—snorts like she hasn't expected any less from him.

Newt catches Thomas's eyes in the disquiet that follows. He smiles uncertainly. This, whatever it is, is undoubtedly going to hit the newspapers, and it is going to cause quite a stir for them for some time to come. He is under oath however, and dedicated to putting Janson away for a long time. He has to say it.

They all knew that it was going to be brought up. So Newt knows that Minho has accepted that his friends are going to find out about him being a gay-and-complicated something, with two people, much as Minho hopes that his family won't find out until later. And Thomas, Thomas has assured him that it is worth the slack. The rest is really just a necessary evil.

"Any more questions?" presses the judge.

When silence follows, Newt breathes out and closes his eyes. At long last, his part is done.

 

* * *

 

They stay in New York a few more days.

As most of the Faraday estates are being sold to pay off debts and the one that is left makes them too easy to track for the press, most of the time spent after the verdict is in a hotel, with all three of them booked under a different name, and occasionally addressing each other as such for the sake of lightness.

Thomas's father has publicly declared Thomas to be a disgrace to the family, having two—male—flings at the same time. He seems most pissed off about the fact that Thomas isn't even trying to pretend that he doesn't. So Thomas doesn't go home very often and when he wants to meet up with his mother and sister, maybe one or two of his old friends, it is either in the hotel's restaurant or somewhere downtown, dressed with scarves, sunglasses, and coats too large.

Newt is fine with a few days extra. He finds that he likes the city; it is the bustle that persists at any time during the day and night, down to the roadworks at four o'clock in the morning and the almost constant presence of police sirens. It is going for a stroll in Central Park in the early morning while Thomas and Minho run a few laps and make an effort to continue to cross paths with him.

Newt's mother naturally isn't happy to hear about her son's boyfriends, and he is relieved when she finally leaves for London. Newt's mess of a love life pales in comparison to the minor offences which he has admitted to committing, and yet their conversations keep going back to Minho and Thomas. 

She tells him again and again, with the best intentions, how being involved with more than one person may seem like a good idea now, but it can only lead to heartbreak in the end. Her words are soft, and yet they only make Newt feel worse. It isn't a novel thought.

The cool air outside serves to clear his head.

He passes two bagels to his left as Thomas, Minho and he sit on the edge of a bridge. They are in the middle of the green heart of the city, on a small break from their morning routine. Winter is late this time, and the park surrounds them in reds and oranges on a January morning, over a soundtrack of honking cars in the distance and prep school kids shouting to each other at the baseball park further south.

"Good run?" asks Newt.

"Minho is slow," Thomas pipes up as he wolfs down the top half of his bagel and groans, his fingers clutching the oily paper. A dab of cream cheese ends up on his thumb, and he sticks it in his mouth.

"Dude, shut up," Minho objects. He swats at him, pushes him off balance and scoffs. "Just because you lagged behind and I had to shucking go slow for you just so you could make a sprint at the end and pretend your stamina isn't actually abysmal. And you're calling me slow?"

Thomas grins between Newt and Minho. He raises a brow when he catches Newt's attention, the boy with the red nose, tousled hair and glinting eyes of a man who is definitely up to no good. They both enjoy a good tease from time to time, because Minho is adorable when he is annoyed. Newt waits for it.

But when Thomas suddenly pecks Minho on the mouth, Newt is wholly unprepared.

Minho flounders on the bridge railing. He sees his bagel fall from his hands and disappear into the water. "You shank!" he complains loudly, before snatching Thomas's half-finished wrapping and throwing it in the water next to where his own lunch went under without the bat of an eye. Then he stares at the boy who kissed him. As does Newt.

"Honestly," Thomas smirks, his hands in his pockets. "That's how you deal with stuff, Min?" His attention shifts to Newt. "Was that okay with you?"

"Er." At a loss for words, Newt clutches the last bagel left. He gestures at Minho. "Aren't you supposed to ask him that first?" 

The lines of what is and what is not allowed are blurry and deceptive, This is Newt's boyfriend, smugly asking for his late permission to kiss the other. Newt doesn't know what he thinks about that. There is a guilty pang of feeling left out, he thinks, and yet it shifts the balance between them to a more neutral center. It makes him less selfish. That, and what has just happened keeps repeating itself in his head.

"You're damn right," Minho huffs out a breath. "And you bet your ass I'm not answering that until you get me a new bagel."

"Fine, whatever. I asked." Thomas shrugs. "Newt?"

Newt closes his mouth, considers that with a tilt of his head, and nods. "Yup. Yup, I think I'm okay with that." He laughs when Minho now turns his betrayed look on him; Newt patches the guilt trip right up by offering him what is left of his own bagel, whisking away the memory of Thomas's kiss with a quick one of his own, and adding, "Only if you are."

Newt is unsure where the kiss came from. Which, he thinks, sums up how he has been going through life for weeks now. For all he knows, Thomas might be into Minho too. It hasn't rattled Thomas when Minho steered them three into a relationship for the obvious reason that it was all or nothing. Just like allowing Minho to watch them kiss is dubious enough—on both their parts. Newt blows warm air onto his hands and glances between them.

Thomas is expected to report to an officer every month for the duration of two years, these days; courtesy of all the rules that were broken. Any minor offence that breaks his parole will mean a straight road into prison. Newt has one year to survive, which is both disappointing and quite honestly better than he expected to get. It means that he can still go to Central Park on a Saturday morning and enjoy the pleasant chill before having to go back to his homework at his hotel room while trying to ignore his mother's messages, or Minho's attempts at distracting him.

So the only thing that Newt is concerned about is whether Minho is fine with Thomas kissing him. He pulls the boy close; Minho is always warm. "If it wasn't so bloody cold, I would have made you fish your food out of the water," says he. "You threw two perfectly good meals away. You had better share that one."

Half a month in, he still hasn't gotten used to how good kissing Minho is, when he doesn't have to stress about what he tells Thomas—other than that he could just tell him if he wants to, which is arguably the best part about being with him. It is his favourite moment of the day, to be woken up at five in the morning for a sleepy peck on the lips. On days when Thomas is in Denver, Newt will curl back into the other boy's sleepy embrace in a bed that wasn't made for so many, and slips back into slumber as soon as Minho is off for a run.

There is nobody who cares about what they do on the bridge over the pond, and Newt smiles into the kiss. "If you're nice," whispers he, "I'll make you two dinner tonight."

"Bigger portion for me?" Minho bargains outside of Thomas's hearing range.

"Don't ask for that unless you're prepared to finish it," Newt cuts him down with a darling smile. He shares an understanding with Thomas that with Minho, Newt is different. He is forward with measure, and more affectionate; gestures that don't work with Thomas when every makeout session ends with them being both hot and frustrated. Because there are rules, and the most important one is simple. They only do something when they are all ready.

Except Newt remembers Minho out of breath in his bed the night before, and he wholeheartedly believes that the trip there—wherever that is—is worth it.

Thomas snatches away the bagel while Minho is too busy to do something about it. "Are you offering to poison him again?" he asks. "Remember last time?"

"I won't let it burn this time."

"That pizza was really good."

"That one with the chilli and the garlic sauce," Minho joins in. "Fucking divine."

"I hate you both," says Newt.

"Sure you do," whispers Thomas, and kisses him on the cheek. "Sure you do."

 

* * *

 

"Why are you so _slow_?"

A dirty pillow sails across the hall of the seventh floor of the Grand Paragon. It misses its mark by an inch. Chuck cackles and opens his mouth to start a taunt when the next one hits him square in the face. It makes him laugh even harder, all red-cheeked and happy.

"Yeah? We can't all be bloody bedmaking prodigies."

"You make it sound so degenerate."

"Good. I intended to."

Newt returns to finish his room. The windows that stretch the wall of his room offer a view of the city of Denver succumbing to a beautiful twilight. He remembers Thomas telling him once that the city does not compare to New York, and while Newt can understand that now, there is something about the simplicity of the skyline that trumps an overwhelming sea of lights. He sits on the bed for a moment, just to take it all in.

"Oh my God," Chuck saunters in. "You're just—what are you doing? I know you were slow, but this—" He stops mid-sentence, then moves himself to sit down on the bed next to Newt. "Woah."

"Nice, isn't it?"

"Yeah, man. None of that from my rooms. Hey, I totally get why you're extra slow now. Wow."

It is easy to fall back into his old job. There is no more Janson to worry about, and the managing staff have been completely renewed. All his old co-workers are there though, and he gets to work the shift with Chuck again. It is a wonderfully uncomplicated job.

"But," Chuck pats his leg, once, "we'd better hurry up. You have someone waiting for you, and I won't allow you working overtime on your first day. That just won't do. Come on, lazy. There is a big day ahead tomorrow, and we have to make sure that it's all ready."

They peel themselves away from the view and return to their own tasks, after Newt is made to promise Chuck that one day, he will talk to Thomas about Chuck seeing that same view from the penthouse—which is no longer really called the penthouse, as it is now simply 'Thomas's'.

Newt finishes up the last of the rooms in time with some much appreciated help from his friend. It is fine to eight when they look at the clock in the locker room and grin. Both of them fetch their belongings and bump fists. "See you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow, dude," agrees Chuck. 

The boy heads for the front entrance with a light skip in his step. He pats a frowning Winston—busy showing a new girl the ropes of being a bell boy—on the shoulder. Chuck shares Newt's sympathy; it feels good to be back and on the same shift again.

At the reception desk, Alby puts the final touch on having everything ready for next day's grand reopening. Under the glow of the warm light around him, it is almost like he is already expecting customers, like one could come in at any moment, handing over the luggage to Winston while pushing a reservation forward across the desk. The Grand Paragon is still as upper class as it used to be, but the accents of gold have been replaced and the general style of the place has become much more contemporary with only the bare minimum of changes.

The dial on the elevator however remains the same, an analogue touch in a modern place. On the chair closest to that elevator, a familiar figure has stacked two plastic bags filled to the brim with groceries, so domestic that for a moment the Grand Paragon no longer feels like a hotel but rather an apartment building, the man waiting with his hands in his pockets.

They get into the elevator, each carrying a bag. 

"So what are we having?" asks Newt when his curiosity gets the better of him, five floors up. Once, Newt pepper sprayed one of Janson's guards on this floor. It still makes his heart beat when he thinks about that.

"Thomas asked for spaghetti," says Minho. "Ever made spaghetti?"

"Nope." They share a secret smile. "Help me out?"

"If you ask nicely."

"How is this not asking nicely?"

Minho rolls his eyes, and Newt has to kiss the smug smile off the bastard's face before it becomes unbearable. "Honestly," he says, "what did I do to deserve this?"

Minho ignores the jab. He is used to Newt's sarcasm by now, and well aware that if he answers in any which way, it isn't going to stop there. Nor any time soon, for that matter. "How was your first day?" he asks instead.

"Good," says Newt. While he still can, he jams the elevator for a minute before pulling the other boy against him in need of just a moment between the two of them. Down in the lobby, Alby is undoubtedly rolling his eyes when he sees that the dial has stopped halfway, but in the small compartment suspended from the top of a skyline building by steel wire, Newt doesn't care.

They meld against each other like it is second nature. It is not, and it will take time before they make it there—not effort, never effort—but when Minho kisses back, none of that matters. "I love you," he whispers. 

"I love you too," completes his heart, the part that is Minho's. Newt is okay with that. He hopes that in time Minho will grow more comfortable around Thomas and him, just like Thomas poorly hides his urge to distract them when it is Newt and Minho—Newt has explicitly hinted at them spending time together without him—but that won't change what he feels, or how strongly he does.

The elevator jumps back to life far too soon. Minho looks at him apologetically. "Someone's waiting."

They knock and wait, and both of them don't think much of it, other than that they will be the hotel's first guests after it reopens and that tonight is technically their first real date. And so Newt is unprepared for Thomas making an effort, his eyes scanning around the sparsely lit apartment behind Thomas in amazement.

There is almost no natural light, the night sky an endless void behind the windows twenty stories up. Inside, a myriad of pinprick light clusters drown out what light comes from street lamps and light pollution. They scatter like man-made starlight. The angels have been painted over with off-white on the ceiling, Newt notices, and the all-black leather upholstery has been replaced with rough leather. Fluffy carpets break up a wooden floor.

It makes the apartment remarkably welcoming.

"Hi," Thomas radiates brightest of all. "Sorry, I uh, I asked Mrs. Yoshitaka," the designer responsible for the hotel's makeover, "and she went a little overboard."

"Just a little," laughs Minho, breathless.

"Just a little," agrees Thomas. "But it's nice, right?"

Newt steals a welcoming kiss as he passes him to drop the groceries off in the kitchen, with a silent enquiry to follow. "Really nice," he agrees. As soon as his hands are free, he hops onto the counter like he is at home. "Hungry?"

"It can wait," smiles Thomas. He has just gotten back from another couple of consultancies in New York and he hasn't seen either of them all week. So he shamelessly indulges in his need to kiss the boy on the counter and remind himself of everything he comes back for, every single time, all hands on the Newt's side and soft laughs that Newt can't get enough of. "How was your first day? The new manager, is she okay?"

Minho puts the other bag down in the corner somewhere, and they can practically feel his eyes on them. Newt reaches for the runner's hands. "She's no Janson," he smiles. "But have a copy made of that deed anyway. I'm not going through any of that again."

"Your crime days are over, huh?"

"A reminder that that's up to you," Newt points out. "So don't disappear on us again, love."

"What if it's Minho?"

"Minho doesn't get himself into trouble."

From their side sounds a laugh. "Yeah, about that." The two frown and turn to him. They both hear the nervousness. "Hold onto that thought."

"Min?"

"My uh, my Mum knows." Minho's shoulders sag. "And she's gonna be here on Friday."

The last of their parents to find out, Minho has been spared from the drama for longer than Newt or Thomas. But Thomas has a reputation with both girls and boys and this should come to no surprise to anyone who knows him, and Newt's parents have always known that he was gay. Minho, Minho is supposed to like girls.

Minho regards them both guiltily. He tries for a smile.

"Are you sure you don't want to reconsider that statement?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, so, this was supposed to be the last chapter. And then that didn't feel right. So, there are two more chapters on their way; the first from Thomas's point of view, and the last will be Minho's. Thank you all so much for sticking with this story so far! You guys are amazing <3


	17. Sustainability

Thomas wakes up to an empty bed. 

It is nine in the morning, and on the rare occassion that his alarm is set late on a Monday morning. The light in his room is orange and warm even in January, even if the temperature outside the sheets is not. One of them must have turned off the heating when they left. They know him well.

He has some calls planned an hour from now. As his eyes fall on the sleek black phone that is reserved for business, he knows he will have at least ten missed calls for the upcoming event at one, and he is probably expected to answer all of them. Thomas instead slides to unlock the other phone on the nightstand, which is a bright red massive device clearly meant for taking pictures and text messaging, and not actually calling. Only two people know the number, and that is just the way he wants it.

Newt has left something at eight. _Morning (or Afternoon. Please don't let it be afternoon), when you read this. Guess who just finished the last of his homework? I have to run now, didn't want to wake you, but let me know when you've got time. I'll try to make it to the opening in my break._

The promise causes a smile as Thomas stretches his legs and mentally prepares himself to get out of bed. There is nothing from Minho. Minho, who has been wonderful throughout the evening, talking to Thomas with a mix of boisterous laughter and decent conversation while drawing circles on Newt's hand with his thumb, until Newt declared that he was getting sleepy and took off to bed, and Minho suddenly up and left. He seems uncomfortable sleeping in a bed that holds all three—they have all fit in Minho's cramped bed during the week of renovations, so it is not the proximity—just like the reminder that Newt is officially Thomas's boyfriend aside from being Minho's seems to take more getting used to than expected.

It is not that that comes as much of a surprise. Minho has been weird in front of Thomas ever since he kissed him in the park, which admittedly Thomas probably shouldn't have done, and the boy's primary focus has always been Newt. They both try to make sure that Newt doesn't find out, because Newt is the glue to keep them together while the relationship that they are trying to build is so dysfunctional that most of the times it feels like a wasted effort. If not for Newt, they would have fallen apart already. Those are the shaky foundations on which they try to build their impossibly complicated love triangle.

The remains of a romantic night surround him when he saunters to the kitchen, only to find the dishwasher loaded with the pots and pans of last night's date. Newt is quite a terrible cook on his own, but Minho knows his stuff; together, they made something that is surprisingly good. There is a note on the counter. _Pizza next time?_

Thomas responds on his phone, _Only if you're making pizza. But who needs pizza when your boyfriend makes a mean spaghetti?_

He looks forward to the grand reopening, because that is when he can officially turn over the responsibility of looking after the building to the Grand Paragon management team. There will be less trips to New York, and more time to do the things that he really wants to do. Like waking up in Newt's bed, or taking him out to a restaurant.

Or spending time with Minho and doing something that isn't paying video games or taking pictures for Newt's sake.

 _Hey you,_ Newt replies from class. _Are you ready for this afternoon?_

 _I have no idea what I'm supposed to do or say,_ Thomas jokes, and he's not lying. From a man who used to think he owned the world, it is both refreshing and limitlessly scary to know that he does not. The wrong word can change everything and bring it crashing down. It doesn't apply just to his finances, either. _Come see me when you're done with classes?_

_I was already planning to. You'll be fine, Tommy. Don't sweat it._

It is funny how Newt treats him almost like he does Minho, and that it actually works. Thomas finds himself more confident after a shower. He retrieves the suit that his mother has selected hanging from the bathroom door, and for a moment nothing can go wrong when he regards the cutting image that he strikes in the mirror. Formal, but without adding ten years to his age. He looks good, he knows he does. Some of his friends from New York will probably compliment him on it, ask if he feels up for a night on the town. Because, they will say, it has been too long. And Teresa, Teresa will roll her eyes and recall the unflattering memories of him falling asleep in a bowl of cereal or being caught on camera vomiting in a back alley behind some club, and the suit just won't be able to cover all of those memories up.

But he is alone in the room, getting ready to face a crowd of hundreds of people with the cameras of the world press aimed at his face and nobody to talk courage into him in the empty apartment, and he knows that his confidence is a far shot from what it used to be.

It is ten thirty when he sits on the couch, barefeet and listlessly sending some messages back and forth with Ms. Page, an associate of his father and the organiser of the event—she is down in the lobby, but he can't find it in himself to leave the penthouse just yet—with increasing nervousness, when a message comes in from Minho.

_Coming up rn. It's a madhouse down here, man._

The elevator moves and stops in the hallway, and then there is the familiar click and release of the elevator doors being unlocked.

"What are you doing?" Thomas asks, confused, as he stands in the doorway with his feet digging into plush cream carpet under a crisp suit, which earns him a whistle straight off the bat.

"Look at you," grins Minho. "I promised I'd come over, didn't I?" It is Minho's free day, Thomas is reminded, and yet he is grasping for a way to understand last night's suddenly awkward disappearance. Simply put, Thomas didn't expect Minho to actually show up after that long silence. Certainly, the way he looks him over, even if it is just once and just as friends, throws him off guard.

Thomas moves aside to let him in.

"So, ready for the big moment?" Minho asks with a certainty that he usually doesn't display around Newt, but all the time when it is just Thomas. When he is just among friends.

"Yeah," Thomas shrugs, partly feeling empty and partly relieved. "I don't know, I just want it to be over with."

"Come on, shank, aren't you the least bit excited? It's your big day."

Minho's mood does make him feel better. It always does. "I tell you what. You go out and have that speech in my place, and I'll owe you one. You want a helicopter ride over Manhattan? Pizza for a month? On my word, you got it."

Minho laughs. "Yeah, no thanks. Sorry, dude, but rather you than me." He sits down on the couch, his attire so casual compared to Thomas, and kicks off his shoes. A six-pack of beer is presented on the table in front of him. "I brought you courage though."

"You brought me alcohol," Thomas states.

"Worth a try, isn't it?"

"Ms. Page will kill me if I have one drop of that before the opening."

"Then after," Minho says easily. "So, what else do you want to do? Newt asked me to get you some distraction because he's stuck in class, but I guess beer is out of the question then." He looks around the place, as if considering his options. "Want to play music real loud? Like, not club music or whatever. I mean, what's the point in that? It's gotta have guitars, man."

The plastic wrapper comes off the six cans with effort, and Thomas sits on the table with his legs crossed as he throws Minho one of them. To hell with the rules. "Loud music?" It sounds wonderful, it really does. Pointless, and beautiful. "Why?" It isn't that Minho needs to convince him; Thomas just wants to hear him come up with something ridiculous enough to make him laugh. He is nearly there, anyway.

Minho has no clue what kind of effect he has on people, but Thomas didn't offer him his first gay kiss for no reason after Minho asked him what it was like, a time that feels so long ago now. Just like Minho doesn't quite understand having rejected Thomas by insisting that his curiosity revolved mostly about Newt, and that it had to be him.

Of course, Minho has no clue about Thomas giving him so many windows to kiss Newt or himself, that night of the party when Thomas made out with Newt for hours and waited for Minho to catch up, and Minho never did. Their affections were less complicated then.

"It's the last time that you can, isn't it?" shrugs Minho under the sound of a metallic click and hiss. "There are gonna be guests on the floors below, starting tomorrow."

"Serious, Minho? Newt tells you to distract me and your best bet is loud music?"

Minho's eyes twinkle. He sits on the couch opposite him, just a yard between them. They both have their legs crossed under them, like the gap between them is a campfire on a beach and they are sharing stories. "Go out with a bang."

"I'm not dying."

"Then go in with a bang. Give them something to talk about. I don't care." Because he already knows it. By talking about stuff like this, Minho is taking Thomas's mind off of other matters. "The place is yours and yours alone for two more hours. You have to do something with that, for the sake of everyone who will never own a hotel and call himself the owner of, what, some two hundred rooms?"

"Two hundred and eighty. One, but I'm keeping this one."

"Exactly. So for two more hours, you own two hundred and eighty-one rooms in the most expensive hotel of the shucking state. Tell me you're at least considering not wasting that time thinking about some ten scary minutes."

Thomas considers that. He tips his head. "Ever been to the roof?"

And so, that is where they start. They both squint as strong winds tangle Thomas's hair and mess up Minho's. Over the ledge, they can see some of the people already waiting for a glimpse or to keep their front line position, and they quickly fall back before anyone can catch sight of them. That'll be a story—hotel owner spotted on roof on the day when his hotel reopens.

Minho takes a snapshot of the view for Newt, as has become his custom, and they spend a moment more just enjoying the cold and the peace. Then Minho takes him to a blindly picked floor from the panel in the elevator, getting out at the fourth.

They walk through a deserted hallway. The idea that all of this is Thomas's makes for so much potential, but at the same time it is all a bit unreal. He doesn't know what to do with it.

"Where to, Mr. Faraday?" asks Minho lightly. "Want to see the most infamous room among the staff? Or maybe the gym? I used to be the best at massages when I worked here, you know. Shucking Rat Man, knew that and still fired me. But his loss, whatever."

Thomas is not aware that any room of the Grand Paragon is infamous, bar except the penthouse, nor has he thought about Minho being good with his hands. "The room," he agrees, because he doesn't think the massage is an option, nor wants to linger on that thought for too long.

"Sure thing." And so Minho drags him to the far end of the hall. He pushes a regular creditcard into the card reader of the door. To Thomas's surprise, the door swing opens smoothly. "Real popular room, this one, especially at parties," Minho informs him. "You know why?" He points to the corners of the ceiling. "No surveillance. It was supposed to be a room for staff, when someone misses the last train or needs a short nap, that kind of stuff. Well," he rolls his eyes, glowing with delight, "staff uses it all right. Just not in the way it was intended, and not very properly." 

Without shame, he hops up on the bed and snaps a picture. "Come up," Minho pats the white sheets and waves his phone about.

"For Newt?" asks Thomas as the camera seeks out their perfect angles on the sheets. He pulls a face when he catches sight of his hair; that will have to be redone, before he notices Minho strangely fixated on him in the screen, and he can't help but look back.

"Do you want to? Tell him we're in 417?"

It is like telling Newt that they've gone and gotten a shady motel room, except that in reality it is an upper class kind of shady. It reminds Thomas of the world that he used to live in, half a year ago, and he isn't sure whether he wants that association to attach to Minho.

"I can't believe anyone can just get in here."

"Yeah, that's the beauty of it."

"Have you ever?"

In the screen that hovers above them, Minho must notice the tiny flicker of insecurity, for he breaks the connection, puts his phone away and gets off the bed. "Nah. We did some drinking games here once, sneaking away from a boring party. That was fun. But these walls have seen too much. Not my thing. 'Sides, the penthouse—" He cuts himself short. "There's other places for that."

Thomas does catch the implication, but he doesn't bring it up. "One more place," he decides, "and then I should really go down to the lobby." He checks his phone to see if Newt has texted him to let him know that he is on his way. There is nothing. "Hey," he asks Minho as he sits on the bed still, "take some pictures for me? From the speech, I mean. It's kind of big, so I guess in a few years I might actually want to look back at that and not feel like it's all so shucking obligatory. Smile at the people, cut a ribbon, all of that. Do that for me?"

"Of course," smiles Minho. "Right, I think I've got the perfect room. It's a bit of a secret. If you think about it, it makes sense, but not a lot of people know that it's there."

They take the stairs two floors up, then a turn that brings them to a section subtly different from the rest. 'Staff only', says the sign on the door. It is unlocked, and leads to a small hallway with five different doors. They must have once been ordinary rooms, but now they hold plaques with names like 'Drycleaning' and 'Tailor'. The in-house services offered to guests.

"I thought stuff like that was done by other companies," whispers Thomas. The lack of sound on the area makes him want to not disturb something. He feels like a raider, an explorer in a strange building that seems to have more to it than he could have ever imagined.

"It usually is," Minho shrugs as he unlocks the one at the far back, "but the Grand Paragon isn't exactly ordinary. Come on, last room. You have to take a picture in there. This one's mandatory."

Thomas walks past the door, the sign out of sight, and treads into pitch black darkness. Thomas holds his breath when the door behind him closes. He can't see anything. There is a cold aluminium table that his hands bump into, but he has no clue.

"Minho?" he asks.

"Wait for it."

Just then the light flickers on, dark and red, and the room comes into focus. Lines of a charcoal colour are strung just over their heads like a criss-crossing maze. On other days, in an other world, developing photographs would be hung from them.

"A dark room?" His jaw is slack with surprise. "Are you telling me this place has an actual dark room?"

"Well, it's out of service," Minho replies. He looks strange in red and black, with only shadows to break him into someone three dimensional. Stunningly beautiful. "Everyone's got digital photos these days, I suppose. They're probably going to repurpose this room eventually. It's cool though, isn't it?"

"Yeah." Thomas sounds breathless to his own ears. "It's amazing."

"Okay," Minho smiles. "Good."

"We should show Newt this some time. He's going to love it."

A chuckle in the dark does things to him. Minho ought to by now have taken out his phone and snapped a picture, or at least tried whether the lighting in the room allows for it. Instead he falls quiet, his hands in his pockets, and looks straight at him. "Yeah, he will. But not today, okay?"

Right then and there, there is something else. Like the boy has been making up his mind for a while and now he has. Thomas can't move. If he says one word wrong, he risks breaking something that he cannot touch or see. Which is why he waits, straightens himself involuntarily when Minho moves closer, and breathes with more difficulty when the space continues to close even as Minho stands still.

Lips tentatively press against his own. They seek and ask, sample and enquire, and for a second Thomas lets him. This is Minho figuring out whether he wants this, Thomas can feel it down to the very fabric of his existence, and it is not something that Thomas can decide for him. But by everything that is holy, he wants to.

Minho stops. His breath skims Thomas's face, and his eyes are still closed. "So."

"So…"

"Again?"

A laugh detaches from Thomas's throat, before he crashes their mouths together and uses that momentum to edge the other boy two steps back. But Minho is not like Newt, and Thomas soon finds their roles reversed as Minho gets his feet under him.

They crash into everything that gets in their way, until the back wall stops them. Minho doesn't give Thomas any space to take the upper hand. They are both dedicated to owning the kiss, to staying on top, and neither of them is afraid to bend some rules to hold their ground. It is nothing like the give-and-take that is watching Newt and Minho kiss, nor comparable to how Newt and Thomas tend to start off at the same foot with Newt always giving in in the end.

They demand with lips, they trick with tongues and their hands are everywhere, pushing and pulling. And Thomas can't help but feel that whatever this is, Minho is winning it.

A mouth latches onto his neck. He can't move, can't breathe when he knows that that is going to leave a mark, angry and red over the collar of his suit.

But when they pull apart panting, Minho is laughing, as high on adrenaline as Thomas is. And then it's is softer, just lips slotting together, finding out what that is like. The current of unruly tension between them settles at last. 

Nobody knows where they are, here in a hidden staff room while the world outside is preparing for a media frenzy. Thomas likes that. "Not that I want you to stop," he whispers, "but you're making it really hard to go." He usually prides himself on being perceptive, and it's either that or seeing things where they're not. He hasn't seen this coming.

"Good, that," Minho agrees. "I thought maybe you wouldn't want—well, you know, guess I was wrong, huh?"

Thomas is baffled. "I kissed you before."

"Yeah, but you could have not been serious."

That is as much insecurity as Thomas is willing to listen to. He snorts and shakes his head, his demeanour softening until it resonates. "Very serious. The kind of serious that I've been about kissing you since I first offered it, actually. I know you love him, and that's cool, because I love him too. But I really, really want you, if you hadn't noticed."

As is apparent, Minho had not. He looks down at the lack of space between them, and smiles as if he finds it all rather funny. "I'm really focused on him, ain't I?"

"A bit," nods Thomas.

Minho snorts. "A lot. Yeah, okay, I get that."

"Take it slow?" Thomas offers. "No obligations, just when we both feel like it?"

"Sounds good." Minho touches the mark that he left with interest, a moment of carelessness that is turning into a brand. It must be a dark one, for him to pick it out in the red wash of light. They won't be able to keep it a secret from Newt for long, and the only reason Thomas would want to is to give Minho the space that he needs. But surprisingly, it is Minho who says, "I'll talk to him later."

There are so many ways in which that can go wrong. Thomas nearly feels like he is turning into a risk assessment expert, after numerous meetings and reminders that have served to make him understand that he knows nothing. He shakes his head. "Both of us. After the press event." It makes him strangely more nervous than the reopening of the hotel.

"Want to take a picture?"

Minho's mouth is on his once again. Thomas's eyes close on their own volition, unable to protest. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he notices a flash, so brief that he might have imagined it.

 

* * *

 

Thomas shows up for the reopening with five minutes to spare. His hair is fixed quickly and not as impeccable as it could have been, and the press team is ready to have a meltdown when they find out about the red mark on his neck.

Ushered into the kitchen to have someone powder him until the irregularity has become unnoticeable, Thomas is pushed from one place to the next, a puppet with a few lines and a few things to do, and utterly steamrolled throughout it all feeling like a human Ken doll, fake and wearing foundation to cover up the imperfections.

Teresa continues to give him the widest grin known to mankind on the four-in-the-afternoon afterparty, her hand twirling a strand of hair against her bare neck exactly where Minho left his mark on her brother. And their parents continue to glare whenever he attempts to sneak off early.

Although Newt and Minho aren't here—and it's a good thing that they are not, for it is all so fake and constipated that Thomas would feel guilty for making them go through it—they keep up to date with texts snuck in whenever they can. Thomas has a hard time keeping a poker face when Newt sends a picture of him and Minho in his bed, their legs entangled and Minho's hand on Newt's back under his shirt. They aren't kissing or doing anything inappropriate, and yet it is very much an invitation.

Of course, Thomas has only just managed to calm himself down from that when, echoing down through elevator shafts and fire exits until it reaches the lobby, a bombastic cacophony of indistinguishable noise—something with guitars—comes crashing in. People in expensive suits and a usual air of reservation stand shocked, whereas Ms. Page looks like it is the very apocalypse.

Thomas can only smile, that exact expression made immortal as it is caught on camera from a dozen directions while the world turns to chaos around him. This is it; this is the picture that is going to be in the newspapers. Not him cutting a dull ribbon or giving an eloquent speech that six other people spent days poring over. This. They will all think it is his last act of rebellion. A final salute to the life he used to live.

Thomas knows exactly which one of his two boyfriends demands his attention.


	18. Empiricism

"Don't say that."

"I can't." Minho's eyes are red. "I can't do this, Newt. This is never going to work out."

"Yes, you can. And it will." Newt isn't looking any better, and Minho hates himself for it. "Please don't say that."

It will continue to be a struggle. Minho knows it, and it can't be that Newt does not. He has tried to warn him, after all, before the three of them got into this mess—before Minho decided to ignore all logic for the sake of just having Newt. He still wants that. He positively wants Thomas, too. 

If there was something to make him reconsider, Minho has always expected that it was one of them. It isn't. It is the friends he hangs out with, slipping in comments when he thinks they are good; girls that either snort when they see him now or are suddenly disproportionately interested in getting his attention.

He thought he could handle all of that. But he can't. It is like people have stopped seeing him as a person. He has been degraded from a human being to an idea, a concept, with people either for or against what he now stands for, but on which they all have an opinion. 

And now, it is also his mother.

"Min," Newt whispers.

He looks broken, sitting lost on Minho's bed while Minho can no longer bear to sit next to him, for the proximity is searingly painful. Every second of looking at Newt weakens his conviction.

"I can't. It's—it's unnatural. We should never have done this."

"Are they your words? Or someone else's?"

Minho hurts deep enough for every breath to be a stab. He isn't strong enough to be the one to get rid of that awfully heartbroken look on his boyfriend's face, even if he is the one who put it there. He dreads what he has to say.

"I need to be alone for a while."

 

* * *

 

When his mother asks him if it is something she did, Minho knows that this isn't going to go smoothly.

He has only just opened the door for her and offered her something to drink, and his mother has spent a whole of two sentences on asking how his classes are and if he is eating well, before she brings up what she is inevitably here for.

Minho clasps his coffee in both his hands. He sits on the couch, an uncomfortable distance away from her, as she talks and talks. "Your father and I miss you," she diverts the subject, only momentarily. "You didn't come home for Christmas."

"Sorry," he says. Minho is glad that she prefers Korean. It means that whenever Gally or Brenda walk in on their conversation when they are on the way to the kitchen or somewhere else, they won't know be able to understand. It gives him a sense of privacy, at least.

But Brenda is sharp enough to know that something is wrong. She throws him a sympathetic look while passing them by.

"Hyejin asked about you."

Minho tenses up. Hyejin is the daughter of his mother's best friend. Minho and her used to be inseparable as kids, always getting into trouble again. She is a year younger than Minho, and he supposes she has become attractive enough over the last few years. Apparently that is enough for his mother to have decided that they would be good for each other, never mind that Minho sees her as a sister and Hyejin is much the same. Never mind that Minho is already accounted for.

"I'll send her a message," he says.

"Min," his mother sighs. "Honestly, what are these talks about you seeing a man?"

The living room becomes too small, and the silence that reigns is sharp as a knife. His mother knows well enough that it is not one man. The only source she could have gotten the news from are the media, specifically in articles about Thomas—and those always mention there being two men. Apparently, three people in one relationship is a big deal.

"Are you gay?"

Minho purses his lips. He looks away, the lie becoming a gallow tree to bear the weight of his sanity soon, very soon. "No. Of course not."

"The newspapers say that you and this Thomas Faraday boy are," she is uncomfortable enough not to look her son in the eye when she finishes her sentence, "involved."

He shrugs. It might be bile that he tastes.

"Thomas Faraday is a man."

Minho wants to scream that yes, he had noticed. Thomas is a man. And so is Newt. And he loves Newt—she might as well just call him by name—and he really likes Thomas, but that does not mean that any crush on a girl he's ever had is suddenly no longer true. It doesn't make him less of a person.

She shakes her head. It is so filled with sorrow that Minho can't look at her without turning into a failure both to her and to himself. "What has he done to trick you into this? Please, Minho. If you think about it, you know it isn't right. It's not acceptable. A man shouldn't lie with an other man. It's all wrong. Why are you doing this to me, son? Is it me? Did I do something?"

And Minho breaks.

He doesn't allow her to stay. She is his mother, just here after a long flight, and still Minho returns her to the airport that same afternoon. He can't bear to have her stay longer, for everything she says somehow relates to him having let his family down. Brenda drives, in an offer that pretends to be out of kindness but is really just making sure that Minho will not allow his mother to talk him into a worse depression.

Minho is despondent from the moment they get back in the car. Brenda talks or sings along shredded sentences to the song on the radio. They are poor attempts at cheering him up. He listens absently with his eyes on the road.

 

* * *

 

In the days that follow, he keeps his distance. It is not only between himself and Newt, the moments when they pass each other in a hallway or when they happen to both be in the coffee parlour at the same time; nor Thomas, whom avoiding does not take a lot of effort. It is between himself and everyone. He doesn't want to talk to anyone, least of all anyone who had an opinion about his relationship. 

Now that it seems broken beyond repair, some people have told him that it is for the best. He doesn't understand why anyone would say that, but they were the ones who judged him for liking men before, and so it isn't like Minho is remotely interested in their opinion. When they say that it's good to have him back, he either snorts or walks away. Having lost his attention, they never make it three sentences in.

The funny thing is that while life is supposed to go back to normal, now that he has given in, it persistently does not. Minho feels empty when he looks away just before he catches Newt's eye. He is restless and bitter when he ignores Thomas's messages, then Thomas's calls. Life is not the same. It hasn't been the same for some time, and denying himself what he wants won't change a thing.

So, for something that is supposed to be the right choice, the right way to be in love, it sure doesn't feel that way.

Six days in, he is sick and tired of it.

 

* * *

 

"Minho."

It takes a deep breath before he has the courage to look up from cream-coloured carpet into the questioning eyes of Thomas. 

"Hey."

"Hey," Thomas says, recovering from being startled fast. "It's uh, it's good to see you." He didn't expect to see him, Minho hears unspoken. Of course he did not; Minho has been avoiding him for close to a week. He sounds hopeful though, and not disappointed like half of Minho's worries have been telling him. Thomas has had Newt's affections to himself, after all. He might not want Minho here.

"Do you want to come in?"

"…Sorry."

And Minho comes undone. It is such a simple word, and too short to undo the things he has put them through. Newt is still in class, in the one that they share, which is why Minho is not. To face Thomas on his own is easier; Minho hasn't had to tell Thomas to his face that he needs a break. But Thomas is looking so honest, so kind and so unlike anything Minho deserves that it is all he can say before a lump forms in his throat, pushing tears into his eyes.

"Shit", whispers Thomas. He immediately pulls him inside. At the kitchen table are a pile of books and papers, a cup of hot coffee and a light, but Thomas steers him straight to the couch, sits him down, and proceeds to fetch him something strong. Then, rubbing his foot absently as he sits a respectable distance away, he asks, "Are you okay?"

He doesn't tell Minho that Minho has been a dick, and Minho knows that he has been one. Instead Thomas just sits there, patient despite looking like he is unravelling. Minho deserves much worse than this.

"I don't know what to do," he croaks. "I didn't think—everyone has an opinion. Everyone, Thomas. How am I supposed to deal with that? Mum is beyond disappointed, and I just, I have no idea. I don't want to lose either of you."

"You came out," Thomas says with sympathy, less strung out, "and you didn't have the luxury of telling people on your own terms."

It is Janson being put to trial that is responsible for that; Newt being asked to make a statement. Without that, their relationship might not have come to light. Minho would have been able to tell his parents first, and then, once he was sure that he was ready, his best of friends. Instead it all happens at once, and he can't cope. Minho feels like Janson is messing up his life even behind bars. "Is it always this bad?"

Thomas shakes his head. "Some people never come out. I can't imagine that being any better, if you ask me. Always living with a secret, always having something to hide."

"Does it get better?"

The smile and the nod feel reassuring. "Most of the time. Not always. But then they weren't probably very good friends anyway."

The hot coffee scalds his hands when Minho holds the cup tightly for too long. He shifts it between hands listlessly. "What about Mum?"

Thomas taps his jaw absently. "She's probably imagined you bringing home a girl for twenty years. Give her time."

"But your dad had time, right?"

"I put my dad through a lot more shit than coming out."

Minho wonders whether giving his mother time will solve it. It can't be just that. She would tell him that he's been ignoring her. All he knows is that with every passing second spent talking to Thomas, he feels a little better. Minho has pushed himself to run and run in the mornings, trying to get that once familiar rush of adrenaline that could once make him feel great. He has avoided a lot of people, and he has spent hours on the couch with Brenda, asking the same questions that he does now. Her answers, strong in their blunt simplicity, have yet to accomplish what Thomas does just by sitting here and listening.

He needs to know. "Are we still…?"

There is only the one chuckle to serve as a precursor to the hug that envelopes Minho in much missed warmth. Thomas does not push it, does not demand him to talk or act. He just holds him with a familiarity somewhere between friends and lovers.

It is tell-tale of how much he scared Thomas. Thomas thought Minho wasn't coming back. And although Minho has seriously considered that, in light of all the people that have treated him as of lesser value, he can't imagine a world where he is happy without either of them, where he isn't following his heart because people tell him not to. It took six miserable days for him to figure that out.

He mumbles another apology against the other's hair, just like he knows he will continue to do for days. He has put it all at risk for the sake of wanting everyone else to like him. He is weak, stupid, and above all not worthy of the patience that he is given. 

"I need you both," he admits with his eyes closed and the emotions that cross his face shielded from sight. There is safety in the anonymity. "Sorry for sounding like a shucking sap. I'm a hundred percent done with everyone."

Thomas kisses his temple. "Good, that," he smiles softly.

"Why aren't you angry?" Minho does not understand that. Thomas ought to be angry, has every right to be.

The hug breaks apart, and Thomas just watches him. Minho reads the answer. Thomas knew that this would happen. He understands, and he forgives him. Which isn't fair, because Minho has not expected it, and he certainly doesn't feel any less guilty about how he responded.

"Trust me," Thomas however says, "I've been angry. Very angry. You weren't there when I had to comfort Newt after you hurt him. He was so upset that I wanted to drag you here by your hair and make you take it back. But it wouldn't have been fair to judge you on something that both of us have already been through. So we waited. Newt was sure that you wouldn't come back. I could only hope." He presses a tentative kiss against the corner of Minho's lips. "And here you are."

The first smile that cracks since the night when Minho turned Newt away feels like the end of a long dark. "I don't deserve you two shanks."

Thomas shrugs. "Like I deserve any of this. We're just two lucky bastards. Deal with it."

And that sounds like the best idea in ages.

 

* * *

 

Thomas is a godsend. If Minho didn't think it before, he certainly does now, having been pushed to get a shower and hearing voices almost as soon as he switches on the water. It has been a poorly cloaked excuse to get him out of the room before Newt comes in, and he really wants to turn off the water and listen to what transpires, but he counts his graces.

He forces himself to not leave until ten minutes have passed, yet he still has to remind himself to wash his hair when they are up. Minho's limbs are made of lead when he gets dressed, and the doorknob might as well been glowing red hot for how much he wants to not touch it. As the minutes stretch on however, less and less excuses will work in defence of his absence, and at last there are none left.

There is no barrage of accusations. Minho winces in expectation of what is to happen, his back against the bathroom door like he wants to disappear right back into the only room with a lock. Instead he finds Newt at a loss for words on the other side of the room, staring at him like he is a lost man recovered after years on the far edge of the world.

"I'm sorry," Minho whispers.

"Are you okay?" Newt asks hoarsely.

Minho smiles with reservation at the same question he has answered differently only an hour ago. "Better."

That is all it takes. Newt crosses the distance before Minho can figure out whether Newt is going to hit him for his stupidity or do something worse, and then all he can do is keep up when Newt kisses him desperately, his hands in his hair, against his neck, everywhere. Newt's hands are shaking when Minho wraps his arms around him, needing a moment longer to process it all.

"You're not angry?" he asks, confused.

"More than," Newt breathes before cutting himself off with another kiss. "I bloody thought you weren't coming back. Don't you ever—"

"Never," Minho promises at once. His fingertips find reassurance on the warm expanse of skin under Newt's shirt. He doesn't know how he has let anyone convince him that this goes against the rules of nature. When Newt's breath hitches, it feels too damn right. Not an ember of guilt, that is what the preaches of his friends and his parents have surmounted to.

They sink onto the couch like they are one body. Never does Newt let him go, one hand continually linked with Minho's. He has always been the stronger one, and Minho holds him close just to breathe him in, swallowing past the constriction in his throat while the coil of his emotions truly comes undone. All the while Newt peppers him with kisses, gentle and longing all at once, and the thought that they were once worried about whether this was going to work out is suddenly almost silly. Newt and Thomas are nothing short of perfect.

His breathing has only just calmed when there are lips lazily trailing down his neck, silently asking before at last—with such care that Minho knows how much Newt fears pushing him away—pressing against one of his weak spots. "Tommy," Newt murmurs, and his free hand reaches out in invitation, just as he whispers between the two of them, "You have no idea how good it is to have you back."

One of Newt's legs wraps around him to tug him closer, and Minho thinks he understands. He feels everything a thousand times stronger when an other body settles against his back. Thomas's arms wrap around his waist and his body settles for nuzzling against him. There are no expectations; Thomas is offering him space the way he has given him space from the start.

Minho bites back a sound. Newt stills.

"Bedroom?"

It doesn't feel like the milestone that it is; Minho's primary concern is making it from the couch to the bed without tripping as he never untangles from Newt, his hand holding onto Thomas like a lifeline.

They sink into the mattress without grace. Newt laughs when Minho unintentionally stumbles between his legs and the contact is suddenly too close, too intimate, his eyes alive with a both love and need. Sometimes, Minho thinks he sees a flicker of something raw, like the need for reassurance that this is really happening. That Minho is really here; is really staying. Newt parts his lips. "You okay?"

He thinks he is. Minho looks over at the other man. Thomas watches them with fascination. He is too far away, even if their hands are still joined. Newt has always been more physical than Thomas, but that doesn't mean that it feels right for Thomas to be moved to the sideline.

Minho pauses in his reply. He leans in and asks Newt in a whisper, so quiet that the sound doesn't reach Thomas.

Newt bites his lip and nods. The idea visibly does things to the boy, and he rolls them both over while Minho is still working on the logistics, delivering him dead center. Minho only has to turn before he comes face to face, so much closer, with Thomas.

Newt doesn't back away. Much to Minho's surprise, the boy sidles up against his back while his fingers link with Thomas's and tug him in. If that is not enough, he starts edging up Minho's shirt as soon as Thomas's mouth is becoming a distraction.

"Still okay?" murmurs an unapologetically hot voice against his ear.

Newt is not calling him anything foul; he isn't shouting, nor hissing, and he doesn't say any of the things that he should be saying. Minho is disoriented, to say the least, and yet he confirms without having to think twice.

"How far…?"

"As far as you're comfortable," Thomas responds.

"This isn't how I thought the welcome committee would be." Because it's truth, no matter how out of breath Minho is when he says it.

"We really, really missed you," Thomas says so smoothly that it is more of a promise than anything else.

"Besides," Newt says against his ear in a way that stirs things low in Minho's gut, and then continues, "actions and consequences, Min. No way I am remotely okay with going all the way tonight."

He has earned that, he supposes, even if the idea of going there is still daunting enough to him to be grateful of Newt's words. That is something left for when they are back to steady grounds.

"Maybe tomorrow," Newt muses, "if you ply me with breakfast in bed."

Minho stops. "Sorry," he promptly says against Thomas's mouth with one last searing kiss, his last reserve, before he turns around in their close quarters and stifles anything else Newt has yet to say with an undignified "Mph!" while his weight pins the boy to the mattress with a pressure that is entirely too good.

Thomas rolls onto his stomach next to him. "No offence taken," he says. His hand trails over Minho's near-naked back, each bump of his spine up until high where his shirt blocks the way—smiles when the skin becomes dotted with the effect of his attention—and indulges in the sight.

Minho doesn't think he can ever get enough of this.

 

* * *

 

As per request, Newt gets his breakfast in bed. It is perfect, Minho has made sure that it is, all bacon and omelette and a cup of tea too strong for anyone to humanly stomach. Perfect.

He kisses his boyfriend awake against a string of complaints, and has to hold himself back from slipping back into bed when the sheets shift to reveal a body in the same state of undress where they left off last night.

"Min, you asshole, don't you dare tell me it's five in the morning," Thomas warns, looking similarly dishevelled, his eyes screwed shut.

"You asked for breakfast."

"Oh bloody—" Newt pulls the sheets up high and disappears as far underneath as he can, as soon as he sees the red hour on the alarm clock. "It's five."

"I hate you so much," Thomas groans.

Newt mumbles something unintelligible. They share an understanding underneath the sheets. By the time Minho thinks to worry, he is too late.

Two pairs of hands pull him right back into bed and keep him there until he gives in.

Six o'clock passes.

Seven o'clock.

Newt is late for his first class that day, and breakfast forgotten.

Twenty stories up in the former penthouse of the city's famous Grand Paragon Hotel, snug between a rich kid turned drop-out student and a boy who broke into the very same hotel with him—both of them former fugitives, currently on parole—Minho knows that the world will have its opinion ready.

For now, it is eight thirty, and none of them are in a rush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You, brilliant reader who have just reached the end of The Grand Paragon Hotel, are wonderful. When I first started this, the only thing not blurry was that first kiss. Everything that followed in the next thirteen chapters sort of happened organically, with many encouraging comments making me want to write faster and faster. From the bottom of my heart, I hope you have enjoyed it. Thank you.
> 
> PS sorry about hurting Minho so much.


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